


The Life of Gotham

by e_so_te_ric



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman: Arkham Knight Genesis (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arkhamverse Gotham, Batman: Arkham Knight Spoilers, Coffee Shops, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Batman: Arkham Knight, Psychological Horror, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Snark, Stalking, Suspense, Thriller, Vigilantism, Witchcraft, black humour, can and will get intense, coping with sadness, i apologise for my writing, kinda sad, questionable writing skills, reader is mysterious, some sort of plot??, the ghost - Freeform, thickening plot, we got a badass reader, y'all i'm sorry if i scare ye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_so_te_ric/pseuds/e_so_te_ric
Summary: There's a lot of crazies running around in the ruins of Gotham, a city in crisis. Whether they're 'good' or 'bad' or have a talent for dancing on that fine line, no one cares.They're crazies. They keep blowing things up. They are slowing down traffic.Honestly, you didn't care. As long as you could keep your job and not die—or be threatened with death every second Wednesday over a latte—you were fine.But at one point, the inevitable will happen. The costumed crazies will run smack-bang into you.And you have a lot of work on your hands when you try to get one of them out of a tough spot.





	1. Midnight Polaroids

**Author's Note:**

> How did this happen? *shrugs* One day, I opened an account and the next, I wrote this half-trash thing of post-Arkham sadness that's just been stuck in me for a while now. So here I am, writing about something and super anxious about posting it yet just going for it. Please feel free to discuss.  
> The bigger section of meeting Jason Todd will happen next chapter, so feel free to stay tuned. Other than that, thanks for reading!

You popped your gum, walking in the dead of the night when you should be dead.

No one knew whether it was the city or the outskirts that made Gotham so scary—some people had their money on both, some said it was neither and that it was just the people and gravity. Yet, here you were—strolling on the road outside of a haunted home. Kind of tired, but the nightly ambiance keeping you awake.

Despite growing up in Bludhaven, you had been aware of what happened here. The news channels only played the footage about a thousand times, and you couldn’t imagine what sensationalism the news received in Gotham. After a whole week of crisis and dysphoria settling over Gotham, as thick as that cloud of amber gas, the news passed.

Huh. How quickly the ghost of Bruce Wayne passed on.

You felt kind of bad for the man. He dedicated his entire life towards helping the city, in and out of costume. Left an entire legacy to keep the structures of Gotham upright, and fought for success for his home city.

Now, all that was left of him were the Bat-signal in the city—and someone occasionally breaking into the GCPD to light the blasted, broken signal they’d had genuinely bothered to restore—and the tentative speeches Mayor Gordon made of him after a while. The towers of Wayne Enterprises. That’s it.

And without him, Gotham crumbled.

Again, the Mayor was obviously doing his best. After the whole incident which reached international news, Gotham was struggling to breathe, rebuilding with difficulty and people moving away more frequently—or never coming back at all. Whether that was intentional or not, you didn’t know.

You were one of the only few people who saw this as an opportunity for new life.

Or, in your case, to _help_.

Now, you stood in front of the burnt monument of the most famous and safest houses of Gotham—once. It was charred to ashes now, brittle structures falling with wind and no one bothering to rebuild the broken remnants with no valuables left to collect from the burned building.

Maybe it was just that no one could _afford_ it.

Afford to build, or afford to disrupt the Ghost.

The wind was soft, recovering from winter conditions and much clearer in the outskirts than inside the city—one just choked and coughed in the city’s winds, toxicity clear in the air and not even the rooftops giving much safety from the disgusting smell. The trees were as dark as the shadowy structure of the manor, adjoined to a large lake you could barely discern in the darkness. It didn’t glimmer like it used to on TV.

Nothing glimmered in Gotham.

There had been… reports. Of people coming here. In search of this… _cave_ somewhere here—most of what you’d overheard had been people hoping to find some form of valuables in the cave apparently directly beneath the remnants of the mansion. Some of them made it back into the city, empty-handed or retelling accounts of finding nothing.

Others, who were a bit more daring, came back pale-faced and not speaking another word of their trip here.

And then there were some who never returned at all.

You wondered whether you’d find their bodies here—or worse, a situation similar to theirs.

Still, you were curious. Your new job and life in Gotham meant that you hadn’t had a lot of time to explore, much less pursue your favourite pastime—photography. Maybe you were just hopeful to find an interesting snapshot here, one nowhere else to be found or captured. It was just something about this place that told you that its aura was irresistible—an aura to be treasured.

A polaroid camera was hanging off your neck by its thin, worn strap. It was once your mother’s, eventually passed on to you—whether or not you nicked it was irrelevant. Still, you had more than enough film to explore for one night and hopefully get back before it was time to open shop. Now all you had to do was figure out if you could actually climb a rickety, wrought-iron gate or if this would end with you breaking a leg instead.

Hesitantly, you brushed your fingers over the surface of the gates in front of you, barely visible in concealed moonlight. It was dark and you felt an odd, chalky substance as you ran your fingers over the gate. Pulling away, the obvious darkness on your fingertips signified charcoal.

With a stronger breeze that had you shivering and clinging onto your coat, the gate swung open.

Times like these were enough for you to curse Gotham and its time-bubble of Victorian eeriness straight out of a horror movie. You flinched a little, muttering a slight curse under your breath. Then silently hoped that no one else had taken the bright idea of coming to this mansion on this very night.

If you actually figured out what people were so scared about from here…

Scrunching your brows together, you steeled yourself. Ghosts aren’t real—you weren’t that gullible. As the breeze howled, you tugged a pocket flashlight out, the press and soft _click_ of a button turning it on and flooding light onto the scene.

Walking around at night was a habit young, helpless-looking women like you should lose. And you were sure you knew better; first Bludhaven, now Gotham. Survival 101 was practically embedded in your body, paranoia carved into your bones so deep that even an off _gleam_ should make you bolt in the opposite direction. It was always like that—life here was _meant_ be like that.

Yet here you were.

Slow and careful movements led you inside, your bones creaking and every step feeling like it was too loud. Like it was disrupting some foreign silence, a place for the dead. You shuffled about, flashlight in your hand as you silently angled it to survey the true extent of the damage done.

Windows gone. Bricks charred into blackness. Fragility and mere will held this place together.

Part of you wondered whether it was too late to turn back right now, pretending this never happened and that your curiosity got the better of you. But that’s exactly what it _did_ —it got the better of you, and thus, you stayed. You wanted those photos so bad. Just a glimpse into the ruins.

You treaded quietly, occasionally stepping on a piece of ashy debris that made a crunching noise. Whenever that happened, you cringed a little, flashlight flickering to your feet as if you felt like you’d accidentally stepped on nonexistent bones instead. A sharp inhale through your nostrils grounded you and pushed those thoughts away.

Finally, you found an interesting section of debris, after several minutes of walking in silence and your flashlight weaving through the broken yet enormous structure. You felt that it was worthy to be immortalised and, despite the darkness, you pulled up your polaroid, switching your flashlight off for a few moments. Moonlight gleamed vaguely, not light enough to illuminate the scene, but you crouched a little, finger on the trigger.

A blinding flash on your behalf and there was a slight whirring noise. The picture printed itself and you snatched up the edge of it in the darkness, the movement coming to you naturally. As you shook the picture, hoping that it’d develop soon enough, you switched your flashlight back on, glancing around and checking whether any alarms or people or zombies had appeared with the the noise.

Nothing. That should be a good thing.

You popped your gum again, chewing on your favourite flavour as the film developed in time. Until later, you shoved it in your jacket pocket, knowing it’d be ready in about ten to fifteen minutes. For now, you continued exploring, your flashlight moving about and lighting up the darkness. The air was still thick here, and you swallowed at how it suddenly felt a lot… colder.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.  
Rumours spread quickly—and most of them claimed that people who went here were afraid and not talking because they met the… the _Ghost_.

No one knew who—or, hell, _what_ —it was. It was swallowed in shadows, some customers in the coffee shop muttered while you pretended not to hear them, setting a plate of cookies down and then moving to wipe the countertop. Glowing eyes and the symbol everyone thought had died. It moved too fast for most to see or describe, and for those who _did_ catch sight of it—

 _One, two, three, four, five six seveneightnineten_.

Deep breaths.

Still, when it wasn’t those vigilante guys swinging from rooftop to rooftop—you swore you saw a hint of cyan blue leaping off a rooftop once, before it disappeared with a boom of thunder—it was the Ghost. The urban legend to top all urban legends, and it even managed to scare you.

They said that the Ghost was a spirit of vengeance.

And that it often was here, waiting in the ruins, to keep people away from here.

The prospect of it watching you right now, with your measly flashlight, polaroid camera, some… chalk, keys and brass knuckles made a strange sensation run in your chest. One that wondered whether the spirit of vengeance ruling over Gotham would be out to get _you_ next.

You were trespassing. It was logical.

Suddenly, your spine felt awfully numb and cold and your breaths were shallow. Chest tight, your flashlight peered into the broken walls of the manor, looking for something you didn’t want to find. Somehow your heartbeat rose in your chest, and a loud gulp made you quicken your pace as you began rapidly scanning through what little more remnants you wanted to have a look at.

 _Daylight, you could’ve done this at daylight…_ where the cops would get you.

 _And at night? The Ghost would get you_.

As you were beginning to half-run out of the house, no longer properly bearing to care for the fact that you were making noise that was bound to get you killed, something caught your eye. It was small, subtle, almost missable to anyone who wasn’t as much as a stickler for details as you were. But you saw it, you really did.

You wish you hadn’t.

Two small polaroid photos. On the ground of a completely charred home, yet the photos themselves completely unmarred. That was out of place and it was not normal and holy shit, someone had been here just to place those photos _right there_ —

Your lungs tightened. You couldn’t breathe.

Hairs on end and sweat drenching the back of your neck as it ran down your spine, your light—which was trembling—illuminated the sight. You picked up both photos carefully, peripherals sharpened and body aching with suspense. It felt as if every movement you made was out of place and every breath you took was too loud, and the hand holding your flashlight curled into a fist you bit in a feeble attempt not to scream or breathe too loudly.

Tentatively, you felt over the polaroids turned to the bottom. One of them felt much older, and had scrawled print on it. You’d read it later, you figured, when you paused. The second one was much too smooth to be as old as the former, which meant that… that…

This photograph was recent.

Brows scrunching together, you let the gust of wind fly past you and through the brittle structure which would’ve once been the entrance of Wayne Manor, jaw clenching. Your mouth was too dry to form any words or remark in exchange for this, so instead, you blamed your shaking hands on the cold and slowly turned over the photographs in your hand.

One of them was… a boy. A boy and what appeared to be his father. They were happy, smiling and relaxed and wearing normal clothing. It was pretty, especially with the scenic and tall-standing manor in the background—

That was Bruce Wayne.

You released a sharp breath sounding similar to a curse, eyes widening and brows raising on your forehead. A chill ran through you and your shoulders shook, tongue darting out to lick the dryness off your lips. Part of you felt rooted in place; your other, better half didn’t dare stick around for now. Your feet carried you towards the wrought-iron gates, and only now did you taste the bitter ash on your tongue, mixing with the smell of loneliness—

Curiosity really did get the best of you. You had to look at the second photograph, the newer one.

At first, you didn’t recognise the photo.

Maybe it was that your hands shook violently as you held the flashlight and polaroids in your hands, barely outside the gates of the desolate mansion. Cursing yourself for your ineptitude of staying away from dangerous things, you tilted your head to the side. The features of the photograph clearing up.

It was mostly dark, light scarcer than what the previous photograph held. Only one flash of light was discernible, and it was angled towards a piece of wall debris that, for some reason, seemed awfully familiar. The flash of light had a source; a camera, being held by the nimble hands of a girl that appeared to—

The flashlight clattered to the ground, its light flickering to survive with the disruption.

_That was you._

Your voice failed you as you scrambled for the flashlight, picking it up and back swiftly turning towards the manor once more, light shining violently from left to right. You were sure to have blanched by now, not a single word coming out of you and your pupils dilated with the drug they called shock.

_No. No, no no no no. What the fuck, that’s impossible._

In the blink of an eye, your feet were scurrying to your crappy little second-hand car, flashlight shaking with your running and heartbeat loud in your ears. Even the slightest _idea_ of this happening should be impossible, and damn it, if you’d only stayed and minded your own damn business instead of feeling the need to go sightseeing—

Bile rose to your throat as you stumbled into the driver’s seat, throwing your polaroid into the passenger’s side alongside the photographs and the flashlight. The door slammed shut, supplying the only source of noise for a mile around and your teeth were chattering as you rammed your keys into the ignition, praying to any deity who took mercy on you that your car would turn on—

 _Come on come on come on come on_ —

The engine roared to life, the car’s lights lifting and sputtering. You gave the vehicle no time as you stepped on it, vision hazing at the edges as the car began speeding loudly down the empty road. Away from Crest Hill. Away from Wayne Manor.

Away from… _whatever_.

You gulped for air as if you were on the brink of asphyxiation, and your mind reeled and raced violently. Maybe you’d— _shit, pothole_ —maybe you’d lay off photography around the outskirts for a while. Try your hand at going someplace else, and with a friend so this wouldn’t happen.

That would work if you even had proper friends.

Even as you could no longer see the gloomy structure in your rearview mirror, you still breathed loudly and harshly, foot not leaving the gas pedal and fingers jumping on the steering wheel. Stars bursted in your vision as the faint, dying lights of Gotham’s city limits came into sight, alongside the trusty and rebuilt Bat signal that glimmered through the clouds.

_Who was it calling to?_

You didn’t wanna know. You didn’t wanna know; not today, probably not tomorrow, maybe not even a _month_ afterwards. All you wanted was that the bile stop rising in your throat and your breathing to be normal so you wouldn’t crash into a damn tree or something.

Shaking your head, you checked the rearview mirror. Your eyes were glossy, as if you’d been given a shot and gotten high without your own knowledge. The only thing that was missing now were bloodshot eyes.

In the back mirror, you swore you saw them. They made your shoulders jolt together, and accidentally let loose on the gas pedal once again as you sped through the suburbs of Gotham.

But they weren’t there. They weren’t there and that’s what you’d keep telling yourself.

By the time you passed the first bridge, your heart rate still hadn’t dropped. You were still shaking, and the idea of anyone sneaking up on you for the time being made you want to cry. Gnawing on your lip, you blindly pulled into the parking lot for your apartment complex. Fingers still jumping, adjusting your trusty and warm jacket on you that even tonight couldn’t shield you from the cold.

Shaking your head, you buried your face in your hands, inhaling another deep breath through your nostrils in hopes of calming down. All it brought to you was the sting of tears—shameless, terrified tears. Never had you ever managed to be caught so off-guard and afraid with your life decisions.

Gotham had never been _too_ scary for you. It was quite similar to Bludhaven, even in its rebuilding phases. But this… this had truly shone a new light on the situation, and finally crowned you as a true citizen of the city.

You were afraid. That was your trademark.

That night, you got out of the car with your stuff in tow, glad that the parking lot had better security than your entire apartment. You tugged out the chalk, fingers shaking as you scrawled a tiny, barely-visible mark on a doorway with white, peeling paint. Renovations were needed, yeah—Mayor Gordon couldn’t afford them, though.

And when you were done finding your own protection, you went home, feeling very unprotected.

And then you prayed that the Ghost found a new target.


	2. Morning Disappearances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, surprisingly enough, it's not that bad(??). I'm very glad to see that the story's already gotten some positive regard. Makes writing a bit less nerve-wracking.  
> But, honest mood here; I really don't like this chapter. I don't know whether it just doesn't fit the mood or it's something entirely else, but I'm kinda frustrated (not to mention that I'm probably one of the few people on here that doesn't use a beta writer/reader so the only sidekick I have is caffeine and a bunch of playlists). The one thing that I do like about this one, though, was that my countless pages of research on Jason's personality in the Arkhamverse have finally paid off to a certain extent. I'd like to say that I portrayed him well here, but it'd be lovely to know whether I actually did and am not, in fact, hallucinating.  
> Anyways, I hope I'll be finished with the next chapter soon so I can post that as well. Stay tuned and thanks for reading.

To say you didn’t sleep well was a heavy understatement.

In fact, the restlessness and mixture of shut-eye and heavy breathing melded so oddly that you weren’t even sure whether you slept at all. The gist of it was that you woke up drained, as if you’d spent the night running from something that wasn’t there. At that moment, you were glad that your work was so close by, and that you happened to own a coffee shop. Thus, as you clocked in before anyone else, you managed to make yourself a nice, warm coffee.

And, of course, guzzled it down and reminded yourself that a caffeine overdose didn't sound great.

That’s what you had a knack for, though—making coffee. It didn’t matter what grounds you’d get; somehow, people always managed to love your coffees the most. This was one of the factors that made your store rise in popularity in a city full of exhausted and overworked Gothamites.

That, and the fact that your store was on open, unclaimed grounds, pretty much unaffected by mob activities.

Not a single gang dominated over the grounds of Bristol’s Caffeine Hub—it was a peaceful place for all to interact. You’d ensured it was that way when you first opened, not letting a single gang truly dominate over the store that belonged to you.

Those who didn’t like it?

Nowadays, that was uncommon.

You had few employees working for you in the store on the accounts that you couldn’t exactly afford it alongside your rent and, you know, you trying to sustain yourself. But there was Nia—who had recently transitioned to Nico—who baked for you every morning, coming in every few hours to make some more goods that you could sell alongside beverages to those with spare cash after a good payday.

In case anyone could ever afford to be peckish instead of their eyes glazing over at the prospect of warm, tasty and _real_ food.

Then there was Kyung Soon, a lovely and young Korean Gothamite who was brought to you by a man whose name you still didn’t know to this day. Kyung Soon was both deaf and mute from early childhood trauma you didn't ask about anymore. But she was quick and, when you’d taught her, good with a coffee machine. Altogether, your few employees were nice and friendly.

But, you know—outside of work, they’re not your friends. They live their own lives.

And you live yours. Fearfully.

The flow of customers was normal—after about a month or two, people became regulars, and new faces were common. Despite the fact that it was kind of closed-off, with a view towards the river and the Statue of Justice, people came in here like flood waters. Whether to shield from the rain of the intoxicating smell of caffeine flowing through the air and outside whenever someone opened the door was up to them.

Exhaustion weighed at you uncomfortably as the day milled on, with you sliding a note over to Kyung Soon that had the next set of orders jotted down on them. The woman in front of you—features weary, signifying that she’d come back after the incident rather than move here to start anew—smiled tiredly yet gratefully. You nodded curtly, letting her go off to the side to take the next set of orders.

The next guys, you recognised a little.

Gotham was an all-around city of bad people. The only place where you might find luck in not finding thugs residing—but still lurking—would be the Diamond District, but no one was rich enough to afford living there in the first damn place. Still, the fact that people came here so often meant that there had to be a mix of the normal, vaguely decent people with not-shady jobs and, of course, the thugs.

These guys were from Penguin’s crew—you could tell by the jackets.

Torn logos, marks on their wrists. These guys had a habit of being picked off the streets.

Your mouth got a little dry at the thought of that happening to you.

Even though those suckers lurked around Bludhaven more than you liked, they weren't inherently _bad_.

It was customary for you to not be a complete asshole when you did customer service and hospitality for other people. So you plastered on a half-interested expression, eyeing all of them tersely as you greeted, “What can I get you?”

“Two plain-black coffees,” the man in the front announced, expression as grumpy as you felt. You nodded, getting out another sticky note to quickly scrawl the order down. Hesitating, then continuing writing. In your peripherals, you watched him slide one five dollar bill and an additional three dollar bills across the counter in your direction. “One cappuccino.”

You slid the note in Kyung Soon's direction, watching as she set it beside the first one. Then, you stashed the money in the machine, bringing out a few coins of change to hand to them. The guy in the front, despite his grumpy burliness, let out a tentative half-smile. You didn't return it.

“Thanks,” he responded, pocketing the coins. “Oh, and Boss thanks you for the mocha you made. Said it was real good.”

This was also a common occurrence—gang members doing coffee or food runs for their bosses. Cobblepot had requested a lot of expensive caffeine from your store several times, and every time, he paid generously. You supposed that running a nightclub meant that at one point, you'd get sick of the booze. Still, the cash kept you out of trouble and also gave you extra funds.

You nodded, before deeming it best to busy your hands and mind by working on the second coffee machine next to Kyung Soon. Figuring that the lack of people at the counter meant you had some time to help ease the load off for the young girl not even eighteen next to you.

Or maybe you were looking for a distraction favourable to fidgeting.

When you’d bothered to ask once, the man who had brought her here—both of them equally bruised and mistreated with their bodies—had only shook his head.

After you found out Kyung Soon’s tongue had been cut out, you never asked again.

You heard the door ring to identify another customer entering the store, Nico exiting out of the back with the oven and a few trays just in time. Grounds in your hand, you cocked your head to them, querying, “Could you please take the order of whoever just walked in? ‘M kinda busy here.”

“No problem, boss,” Nico responded with a smile, pearly whites gleaming despite the smudge of flour on their tawny complexion and littering their chin. Grabbing the notepad, they were out before you knew it, and you got back to work just as Kyung Soon waved goodbye to the woman who left with her order.

As you finished up the two plain-blacks, pouring them in cups as you glanced up and saw the Penguin’s men sitting down and clearly intending to stay, Nico returned to their position behind the counter. Setting the note down in front of you as they quietly muttered to you, “He’s a newbie. Never seen him in the shop before.”

“I’ll take care of it,” you responded in an equally quiet tone, setting the cups aside on a tray that Kyung Soon could deliver to the men further towards the front of the store. Glancing up, you spotted a dark maroon hoodie, clearly oversized but not hiding the sheer bulk of a man. You tilted your head a little, the exhaustion and last night’s anxiety being coated with confusion, but then got working again.

* * *

_Jason's POV_

This wasn’t the usual deal with his current life.

He’d been reckless last night. Tired beyond belief, his lids heavy as he stumbled upon the coffee shop, took one glance at the rain angrily pattering down at that moment, and figured hell, he’d go inside. Maybe he’d wake up again.

It smelled really good here.

Of course, he’d heard of the place before. The Caffeine Hub was a prominent place—and also a hotspot for several criminals to converge in. How no genuinely harrowing violence had occurred here yet was beyond him, but hey—less work for him.

He still ducked his head as he entered the store, though.

Last night’s patrol had been a bitch. The guys that were in town were ruthless with their guns, even with him doing his best to keep ‘em on their toes and wailing like children by the time he got to the last one. Still, they nicked a few good shots at times—it was either he was too slow or too big, or they were getting better with their Stormtrooper aim.

 _The first Robin would’a done better_ , part of him had mocked as he’d tried staunching the blood. _Not to mention your replacement_.

His gut twisted a little as he quietly ordered a tea, watching as the person taking his order flounced away behind the counter. He’d seated himself into the furthest booth, away from the people but still facing the window and panning out escape routes if he needed them.

His eyes kept twitching to the burly men with Penguin’s logo.

_He could take out the trash later tonight._

Jason shut his eyes for a few blessed moments of silence and something akin to peace—he could snort at the idea of peace to be found in Gotham—but immediately opened them again when he felt the laughter in his ears resurfacing. It was too quiet; no one was chatty enough around here. For a hotspot, it was fairly dry.

Or so he thought.

The coffee cups for the thugs had been set down a few minutes ago; now, one of them had taken the bright idea of approaching the counter, talking to you. He overheard fragments of the statement, hushed tone making his mouth curve downwards, and his eyes immediately snapped away.

The guy was talking down to you—based on the few people working behind the counter, he presumed that you were the manager. Odd. You looked too young to be running a business from a glance away, and he could tell that Gotham was still sinking its claws into making you get used to the idea of life here. But now, he had to give props to your form standing behind the counter—you seemed unblinking.

Even as the man’s voice rose, gesturing wildly and seeming to demand something.

_Maybe he could take out the trash now?_

Before he could, you seemed to beat him to the punch. Eyes dull with the grey lighting outside, but silence washing over the coffee shop for a few, fleeting beats. The only thing audible to Jason was the soft clinking of the Korean girl behind the counter assembling cups, working away at the coffee machine and obviously unaware of the situation. He was pretty sure he'd seen her in Park Row before, in the neighbourhoods not as well off...

Silence washed over the shop. He almost couldn't take it—

He swore on his own two eyes. The sucker just kind of, uh. Walked out.

Jason was sure he'd never seen anything so unbelievable yet  _real_  in his life.

At least you ensuring no brawls happening in this place kind of made sense now. But it also didn’t—all you did was stare the fool down or something. Not that he’d been watching too intently, curious yet also uneasy about Gothamites interacting the way they did. What the hell had happened to make a guy go from furious to immediately complacent in a few heartbeats?

He’s gonna be honest—he didn’t like this one bit.

You moved your hands about in the girl’s direction and she nodded. Then, Jason’s eyes fixated on your retreating form as you strolled out towards the back, seeming to go… somewhere. Meanwhile, the two thugs seemed immensely unbothered about the fact that their pal had just left them with zero explanation. And all the while, Jason was none the wiser about what on earth he’d just witnessed in _Gotham_ , of all places.

Didn’t people here _like_ to talk with their fists?

A few minutes passed, and nothing happened. Then, he caught a glimpse of your form returning, beaming at the Korean teen with ashy hair and a facial shape he recognised off the streets. His hands twitched unconsciously, itching for his guns and the way he’d used them that night. To make sure no one would have to go through the same thing as the kids he’d found.

That was about a month ago.

Seeing young girls walking awkwardly, sobbing without noise and bruises littering their bodies with hollow eyes—

He swallowed the bile in his throat.

One thing he did place about you, though—there was a new bandaid on your nose. Spreading out across your bridge, undecorated and those plain ones that any old drugstore offered.

Thing is, you weren’t wearing it when you’d left.

Jason tensed his shoulders—painfully so—and forced his head to turn away, to look as apathetic as possible. He heard your footsteps trailing across the store, and before he knew it, you were setting down a hot, but not steaming, cup of tea down in front of his view. Which, much to his very own shame, had been angled downwards.

 _Just don’t look up. Don’t look up_.

“Sorry that took a while,” he heard your voice, tone soft and apologetic. He shook his head, his silent _it’s fine_ as his fingers, curled up in the sleeves of his hoodie to keep warm—and to hide— extended to pull the mug towards him. Part of him grimaced a little, brows scrunching together at the sight of scars and faded callouses littering his fingers, knuckles kind of purplish from the extensive amount of fighting he’d done last night.

Maybe he should’ve bandaged his hands before he left the house instead of pressing snooze seven times.

But two and a half hours of sleep made him lazier and stupider than normal.

“So,” you continued, and he heard the scraping of the chair across from him as you sat down. He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the nervous tick in it. Eyes still trained on the mug, he tentatively raised it to his lips, taking a testing sip to not burn his tongue.

 _To not burn his cheek, hot hot hot hot hot_ —

It was… a fine temperature. And it, uh. It tasted better than he wanted to actually admit.

His eyes momentarily shot up, barely catching your features as he heard you query, “You new to Gotham? Never seen you around before.”

He could ask the same thing. You acted so un-Gothamite that you might as well have a bright red sticker stuck to your face to identify you as a newbie. Nonetheless, he pursed his lips, his first sip of his tea comforting enough to help him loosen the painfully terse posture he currently had. Setting the mug down for a few moments, contemplating whether he should just pretend that he didn't speak English in favour of actually saying anything at all. But as much as he’d do that to the _others_ —who's immediately call him out on his bullshit because they'd  _talked_ to him before—he’s not enough of an ass to do it to you, this poor waitress-manager. Just trying to do your job and make small talk for some ludicrous reason.

“I’ve… been around,” he muttered, voice hoarse and quiet.

_When was the last time he’d actually interacted in a genuine, non-threatening conversation?_

A slight, millisecond glance told you that you’d leaned back a little, your posture loose and demeanour so different to when you’d stared down that thug and he was the only self-aware witness around. But what he also saw in your eyes was… _anxiety_.

Had you managed to sneak a peek of his features, even with his head bowed, bangs hanging and hood too big on him?

Were you disgusted? Stressed?

The calm had left too soon to be replaced with such an underlying anxiety.

Something was not right here.

“Oh, that’s… tha’s cool,” you responded. You had a bit of an accent. Not that perfect Gothamite accent even he had from his time of running on the streets, but it was close. His best guess was Bludhaven. _Where the golden boy hung about nowadays_. “I’m… kinda new here. So I might not recognise some older faces.”

 _I wouldn’t want to recognise own my face, either_ , he thought bitterly.

Instead, he nodded, not adding another word to the matter. He wasn’t exactly obliged to; instead, he took another sip of his tea. Didn’t comment on the great taste of it, and curled into himself a bit more. As if any attempt to make him smaller was an attempt worth making.

You seemed to catch yourself, the corner of his eyes showing that your mouth twitched downward a little and you stood from your spot across from him. Then, he took another sip as you suddenly acknowledged, “‘M sorry. I’m probably making you uncomfortable. Please, don’t mind me—”

“No.” Jason didn’t know why, but he hadn’t known how desperate he’d been for other, _human_ contact until you were right there, offering it to him. He brushed his fingers over the pallid scars on his fingers and hands, patchworks of pain, fingers curling into loose fists. Before he could stop himself, his eyes were boring directly into you. Maybe a subconscious thing, showing sincerity he no longer had. “S’fine.”

You halted completely.

On his left cheek was a distinct and obvious scar. Slight tint of pink, mostly pale on a slightly-tanned face full of faint freckles and birthmarks. The left cheek was marred with the scar, laced into the feature and twisted into the shape of a distinct J. That was a brand, and it was on him.

_Look at it this way, Todders—it's not like Bats would ever want you back, so you're mine now!_

Your lips were parted and your eyes dashed about, trying to find a resting space anywhere but the scar. Before you knew it, you were staring right into his eyes. A clear and layered periwinkle blue, dotted with cerulean. So bright blue, a stark comparison to the pale pink—

He dropped his eyes and features rapidly, heat crawling his neck in pure shame and self-disgust. Jason gnawed at his lip, wanting to just leave without even finishing the tea that he’d actually been enjoying in the first damn place—

“So-sorry,” you stuttered out, voice quiet and tinged with regret. _Sorry? What for?_ It’s not like you burned that fucking brand into his cheek as a permanent reminder. It’s not like you left him to let that happen to him. It’s not like you were him, having gotten himself in that trouble in the first place. “I didn’t mean to be rude. You can just… stay here, okay? Shout if you need a refill. Maybe if you want any food, Nico’s brought some new stuff in.”

You were rambling.

He couldn’t tell whether or not it was making the situation worse.

Still, he nodded quietly, refusing to meet your eyes again.

Trying to choke down a shuddering breath.

Despite all the shame burning at the back of his mind, out of his peripherals—constantly alert, he had to remind himself—he spotted how you kind of winced, but then let a lazy yet reassuring smile cross your face. Then, you walked back to behind the counter, and only then did Jason remember that he’d just wasted an opportunity of inquiry.

The fact that the thug hadn’t come back or that the others had yet to even look vaguely concerned or bothered was making it worse.

What had you done?

Well, uh. Jason had time. Most of his pastimes during the day, where sneaking up on people was kind of tough with a glaring red helmet, were nonexistent. S’not like he had people to meet or a genuinely enjoyable life to live. Maybe this could be his little daytime thing. When he wasn’t out and about or brooding in his apartment. Watching you, with your mysterious and vaguely anxious self running the coffee shop, and this tea probably being one of the best damn drinks he’s ever had. It was warm, and didn't smell like bleach.

He let a soft sigh run through his parted lips, then leaned back, further into the cozy booth seats. Business had to be good for you to have afforded and maintained this place. But he didn’t let those further questions bother him for now. He still had the day left.

And while his foot bounced with slight discomfort, you did offer refills. And he did kinda like this tea.


	3. Evening Brownies

It’s been a few days now.

It seemed as if your little sanctum of caffeine, food and other good stuff had drawn in a brand new regular—him. You didn’t know his name and you’d barely caught a glimpse of his face the one time you stared unabashedly and felt suffocating shame for prolonged moments afterwards.

But from what you’d seen, he was pretty. Scar or no.

Being a Bludhaven kid, the biggest source of entertainment—or arguments over a frantic dinner table—was on the incidents that happened in Gotham. How one city attracted so much attention of so many loonies was beyond you, but it happened. From there on, the most famous case had been one a while back—with the Joker and his habit of laughing and the faces the news often disliked to show. You’d seen pictures of the bastard online, though, and the only thought you could muster in response was that you were glad he was dead.

And he seemed to have had a run-in with this guy.

That’s the only reasonable answer you could come up with. Someone so sunken in, an obvious J-shaped scar. The only thing was that you never knew enough to be certain that clown would be up for  _ branding _ people, but apparently… he was. And the thought that this man had to go through that—and live with that for the rest of his life—

… It made you sick.

Still, you never told him that. Just either gave him coffee—mostly tea, though—and let him have free refills. And then, when you weren’t making small talk or running around the counter, you continued observing.

Thing is, a coffee shop did, in fact, exchange more gossip than you thought. Gotham’s citizens could never keep their traps shut—especially not mob hands or gang members. Honestly, by this point you’d caught on to so much dirt that you could convict at least a third of the people that passed through your coffee shop, but you never did. Maybe that was what kept you in business.

What you had recently overheard, though, was a lot of new, juicy stuff. People finding that the official rogues of Gotham that had gotten out—though those numbers kept shifting, with Robin and Nightwing cleaning up the city but not really doing much against bail charges and corrupt officers—but… done nothing. Even in the vulnerable, barely-breathing state of Gotham, they’re doing nothing.

Gotham is sitting on a crime wave.

You didn’t like it very much. Roman Sionis was dead—and you were glad that he was. You didn’t know much despite having moved here around the time that it happened. All you had been certain of was that he was allegedly kicked into traffic and died, most likely, from the height. But even with a crime-lord like that dead, there were plenty of others fighting for his position now. At least one of them could’ve gotten the fun idea of kick starting this whole...thing.

Whatever it was.

Sighing deeply, you twiddled your thumbs and gave the customary half-smile to a customer leaving, leaning against the smooth wood of the counter with your elbows. Your mind was still racing from the previous conversation you’d overheard—something about another group of boys being caught out by the Ghost. Or some slasher guy.

Either way, you got persistent chills down your spine, accompanied by dry lips.

All you had to do was  _ not _ think about the photographs.

You could see the man with the oversized red hoodie in the back booth as always—most of the time, practically no one sat there. He seemed to have claimed it as his own, comfortable spot, shrouded in shade and solace. It’s not that bad—that side of the diner was closer to the heater, even though the coffee machines and baked goods gave off enough warmth as was.

Glancing outside, you caught a glimpse of the darkening sky and thick, silvery clouds lazing and looming about. The water glistened and the statue in the middle of the body of water stood proudly in the distance. The day was slowly coming to a close, and you commenced your routine of signing to Kyung Soon to start wrapping up and head home while light was still out.

Then, you added your twist on it, tugging out a few brownies—Nico had done these so well that the scent of them wafting in the store had been dizzyingly enticing for the day—on a plate. When you’d done that, you shuffled past the deaf-mute girl, grabbing the plate and the half-full kettle and shuffled across the store.

You didn’t close the store until late—and this might’ve been one of those reasons why.

There was a quiet skid as the plate shuffled across the smooth surface of the table, right in front of the dark-haired man. You know he’d heard you—otherwise, he might’ve even flinched more noticeably. Then, you poured him a little more tea—this was the one he’d been ordering for the past few days—and quietly took your seat in front of him again.

“Rough day?”

There was a moment of hesitation, before you saw his head shift in what seemed to be a nod. Tentatively, he reached out and picked a bit off a brownie. You spotted the scars on his hands, thick and winding and layering over one another so you could no longer tell what his original shade of skin tone was. Then, you reminded yourself that it was rude to stare, figuring that this man had probably lived a fairly difficult life, and trailed your eyes elsewhere.

Still, you wondered what he did for a living.

“Nico made those brownies with an extra amount of ‘zazz’ today,” you continued quietly, shifting and leaning in the seat to gauge for a more comfortable position. Now that no one else was in the store, this little exchange didn’t have to be so rushed. At that moment, you noted how his head raised in the slightest bit, and that half a brownie was already gone. After you let him chew, you queried, “Feel free to have as many as you like—no one else is gonna be eatin’ them, after all.”

He slowed again. Then, carefully, raised his head a bit, brilliant blue eyes following you with curiosity. Not a single word was exchanged in those few moments where he seemed to not believe you. But then, when he noted the sincerity in your eyes, he ducked back down, eating the other half in one fell swoop.

Why would he think you were joking? Was he looking for… approval?

Shaking your head, you leaned back, trying to find a way to continue this one-sided conversation. Felt more like you were turning into a villain and monologuing to the poor civilian who was at least getting to eat delicious brownies. Then, you figured you could pipe up again, trying to go with, “You hear about that Robin sighting the other night? Guys in here are sayin’ that he’s after some katana-wielding psychos.”

Only then did you notice that, even through the sweater, the man was muscular enough that you could witness the fact that he physically tensed.

Bad topic?

Yeah, you kinda sucked at keeping a conversation. This guy was inexplicably decent-looking, and of course you were a mess and couldn’t get a proper topic to keep both of you entertained or not looking like deer in headlights. Then again, it wasn’t like you could start off with ‘I can’t believe they didn’t teach us more about Vikings’ and expect that to actually pass as a sane conversation.

Nothing in Gotham was sane.

Still, a few moments afterwards he seemed to resurface from dreamland or whatnot, and slowly raised his head. Eyes boring into yours once more and you wondering whether he wore contact lenses. “They say anything else?”

You halted, blood rising to your cheeks.

Well. There had to be something for you to do, and most of the time, listening to someone rant to you or someone else nearby was not that difficult. People trusted you with that information—and if they didn’t, they had yet to do something about you knowing so much.

Come on—a Robin sighting’s either gonna make the news or spread around the neighbourhood. You weren’t the first one to know about it.

But the specific details? Those, you had plenty of sources for.

“Well,” you drawled, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning them onto the table. The surface cool, even against your long sleeves. “For one, Robin doesn’t like appearing a lot, so these guys must’ve been good to draw him out. And then there’s the fact that some dweebs said the katana chicks didn’t attack them directly even if they were seen.”

He was still looking at you. And as he looked at you, you kind of exchanged the favour. Honest, though, as little as there was to know about him, there was obviously a lot of anger. Fiery, burning and charred coals blistering beneath the seemingly perfect broken-blue gaze, dark circles and brows knitted together. But maybe you saw that hint of curiosity, letting you know he was just as young as you and still learning about the world. More than he’d already learned.

Most of all, you saw that he was…  _ sad _ .

Finally, his eyes trailed away and he seemed to shrink further into himself, as if almost silently acknowledging that you were studying him and he didn’t  _ like _ the idea of that. He did take another small brownie, though. And then he spoke up again.

“Look, I get that your job comes with…  _ risks _ ,” he muttered, tone soft and almost soothing alongside the pattering of rain outside. He then gestured to your features, and your fingers subconsciously flew up to trace your bandaid. Right. What did he think about that? “But it wouldn’t be too bad if you just kept your eyes and ears peeled, yeah?”

He slid something across the fairly-smooth wooden surface of the table, and almost immediately retracted his sweater-paw hand. Your eyes flickered down.

Those were fifty dollars.

And, yeah, you’re not gonna lie—even with just about no one in their right mind coming back to Gotham in its post-apocalyptic state, rent was still not for free. It takes guts to keep the store runnin’, and armed robberies that you couldn’t always stop happened at times. Extra cash was a blessing in Gotham if you’d ever heard of one, and it was a fairly difficult offer to pass up most of the time.

But… this was his cash.

You’re not someone to take unnecessary pity on people. But he looked like he needed it more than you did.

Your brows raised on your forehead, and you clenched your jaw as you gazed at him. “Ya think you need to coddle me into submission with money?” Your fingers extended, sliding the bill back across the table right in front of him, where he could take his damn money and stop being a reckless young idiot. “I already keep my eyes and ears peeled. ‘F you’re really that desperate to know stuff, I’ll tell you.”

Okay. Sudden move of boldness was bold.

But he hadn’t shoved a gun against your head yet, so that was a pro.

Finally, he sighed loudly, muttering inaudible words under his breath as he stuffed the fifty back in his pocket. Who even carries money like that around here? Two blocks down, you’ll get mugged with any semblance of cash. Then he leaned back, eyes cautious and almost distrusting. “So you’re not telling anyone?”

“You seem like a guy tha’s not gonna go out and spill the beans,” you shrugged, though secretly glad you were finally getting through to his stubborn ass. It only took several days of serving and talking to what felt like a wall. “Even though I dunno  _ why _ you need this information.”

That was, uh. A careful attempt at finding out more about him.

His eyes shifted more towards curiosity and cautiousness now, obviously catching on to your very bad attempt of making conversation. You watched as he clenched his jaw, turning his head away from you for a few moments as the aroma of coffee beans surrounded both of you.

“Well, let’s just say I’m not exactly one of the bad guys.”

You let out an amused scoff, taking the empty plate from him alongside the kettle and shuffling your chair backwards to stand. “I feel like any guy who’s not a loon or a cop isn’t one of the bad guys.”

A true Bludhaven-Gotham philosophy.

You felt his intrigued gaze follow you as you moved back towards the counter, throwing the plate into the sink and figuring that tomorrow morning sounded like a better time to clean up. A glance outside confirmed that it was raining heavily and it was dark save for the street lamps, and you let a soft sigh escape your lips. Tomorrow you’d close up shop a bit earlier, and then you’d at least have your car to bring you home safely.

Now, you’d have to walk through the maze of Gotham’s alleyways of death.

Checking the time—shit, it was late and you were glad university was no longer a relevant topic or else you’d be swamped with homework—you moved out from behind the counter, towards the mysterious raven-haired man. With, uh, with perfect eyes. And who was awfully tall and kinda handsome.

Okay. He was pretty. Maybe that wasn’t a tragedy to admit.

“Well, good talk, but I gotta close up shop,” you announced, probably a bit awkwardly seeing as he’d already moved to stand up before the words even left your mouth. Now that he actually stood in front of you did you realise that he was  _ giant _ —not only in that he was fairly tall, but in that his shoulders were broad and you had to acknowledge that if he weren’t as decent and okay-ish as he’d currently been letting on, he could very well attempt to kill you.

With that thought, you swallowed dryly, then moved towards the door.

Gotham gave a lot of people trust issues. You wondered whether this was one of those reasons.

He followed you outside, standing under the shelter as you locked up the now-dark coffee store. The only source of light came from the street lamps a few feet away, the yellow-neon tint old and making everything look illuminated, but still too dim to properly recognise vague colours. You thought you’d be used to it by now—but the amber glow had recently started freaking you out.

Maybe it was just because of those damn eyes you’d seen that night.

For a few moments, you were at a loss for words. It was kind of awkward, with you and the man just standing there kind of cluelessly. Like you were waiting for some chain reaction to set you into motion. Finally, you cleared your throat, coughing a little. “See you around, uh…”

“Jason.”

Your brows lowered for a brief moment of confusion, but then they raised again as your eyes momentarily widened. Right. His name is Jason. Hopefully, you won’t have the memory of a goldfish with a smartphone and forget his name. You’re kind of surprised that you actually got a name out of him.

And for some reason, the surprise isn’t actually that bad.

“Right. See you around, Jason.” You turn to walk, hiding the half-smile gracing your lips, but him shifting to stop you from moving away stopped you.

Immediately, your mind went into overdrive again, paranoia gnawing at you alongside the constant reminder that young girls shouldn’t be roaming the streets alone at night in any city scape, let alone Gotham. You’d been so naively sure that he was one of the few guys of the city that  _ didn’t _ engage in those sorts of activities, like those types of people even  _ existed _ in Gotham—

“It’s, uh. S’late.” He pointed out, quietly. Quickly withdrawing himself, but still standing in a way that showed he was fairly damn stubborn about not letting you die out there. And yeah, home was close, but was it really close enough for you to risk it? There were at least three alleyways you had to go through before anything.

A quick internal debate concluded that, while Jason was great, you were nowhere near trusting anyone but yourself to get yourself home safely. ‘Sides, half the people in this area knew you ran the only half-decent coffee shop around here.

Not to mention that you could handle yourself.

“It’s alright,” you tried reassuring Jason, who seemed fairly terse. Eyes flickering about, a slightly displeased scowl appearing on his lips. You, being a Gothamite and at heart a Bludhaven kid, were still slightly dubious. His expression was fairly unreadable and it didn’t do much to say ‘don’t worry, I’m not here to rape or kill you’.

But then again, it didn’t really imply that he  _ would _ .

Sighing—damn it, the few years of customer service and your constant need to be helpful had gnawed through your rock-solid exterior—you nodded quietly. Then muttering, “You can join me if you want.”

That’s when you silently acknowledged the fact that he acted very much like a sad puppy. A sad, intimidating puppy. Still, a puppy nonetheless, and if you could handle yourself against the horrors of the streets, then you’d be fine against just this one guy. Though you were unwilling to test that idea.

The two of you walked silently—he trailed behind almost like a shadow of yours, meant to scare more than your actual self. Rain harsh against your cheeks, even with your hood drawn up. With a shiver you concluded that you’d be glad when you got back home, to your heater that you sometimes put on and the several blankets waiting to engulf you.

Still, despite being accustomed to power-walking on the streets alone, the presence of Jason by your side—kind of—was… comforting. You weren’t alone—for once, not in the way every horror movie begged to portray. And that was okay. That was… alright.

It was also unusual.

Several dark alleys, a few thousand raindrops and approximately seven street lamps later, you finally were home. Well, as home-y as Gotham’s sad apartments could get. And when you did, your upbeat, half-jog walking pace that could qualify you for a walkathon slowed to a soft, half-conscious lull on your feet. You stopped under the sheltering of the front door, and then turned back around to where Jason was.

“Well… this is me,” you explained softly, tilting your head up to gauge his reaction. His features mostly shrouded in darkness made you wonder whether he’d learned to skilfully move in a way that just obscured so much of his large body. The next street lamp—with its stupid, stupid amber glow—was quite a few feet away. So dark murkiness it was.

Finally, you added with a lopsided smile, “Thank you. For, uh, walking me home.”

You weren’t used to being assisted or taken care of in any way—even if it was little things like making sure you got home safe. It was an odd feeling. But you welcomed it nonetheless.

Jason nodded down at you, head tilting a little and a hint of a silverish strand skimming through his dark locks. They weren’t really visible, with the hoodie and rainwater matting the bangs. But you saw the flash of silver, and quite frankly you preferred it to the golden glow of everything else.

You had to find a better occupation than lamenting street lamps.

“Oh, and Jason?” You queried. Feeling his name roll off your tongue seemed to make him malfunction awkwardly every time, but you could tell his attention was fixed on you. You gave a half-smile, then finished, “I’ll keep you posted on what I can hear. And you’re more than welcome to stay back for brownies.”

In response to that, you swore you saw a hint of his lips turning upwards. Could’ve just been the lighting, though.

And then, he turned away and walked further into the rain, leaving you to move back into your apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating. I was busy wrestling with writer's block and trying not to throw my laptop out of a window.  
> Honest? I've been digging for weeks now, but I still can't come up with a fixed age for Jason in the Arkhamverse. My original and favourite calculation is that he should be about 19-20 around this story, because the events of Arkham's timeline would align with that. I don't know. Point is, he's young and sad and 500% ready to be coddled in this story.  
> Also, thanks for the great comments, feedback and love this story has been receiving. It's already much more than I'd expected, and I'm so glad that the countless pages of research are finally coming into use and kind of being formed into this coherent plotline. So stay tuned.


	4. Afternoon Boxes

Something had been following you.

It had to be some sort of curse you’d brought upon yourself through entering the grounds of that damned manor at midnight, of all times. That was the only plausible explanation for the way you kept seeing amber lights flicker, how shadows moved too quickly for it to be an illusion, and how chills crawled up your spine every time it got a little _too_ quiet.

You shivered, in a well-heated room.

The day had been pretty successful. This time around, you didn’t see Jason lurking around, which threw you off but, y’know—it’s not like you personally _knew_ him well enough to actually be concerned about him. You kept serving cups of tea and coffee, and smiled at Nico when he refilled the display case, and signed a thank you to Kyung Soon. It was. Well, normal.

As normal as it’d get when two knuckleheads didn’t get the memo of _no fights in the hub_.

You took care of them.

Now, you were alone again. Shop closed up a bit earlier this time around, and that meant that you got to grace the outside world when there was a vague amount of daylight. Cloudy and greyish as always, but still. It was light enough to not have to grasp a switchblade as closely when walking down certain ways.

You shoved the few boxes of pastries and warmed goods into the passenger side. For the hell of it, you buckled the boxes up, too. Then, you revved the car, cringed when the air conditioner came out with cold air instead of warm, and began driving.

It was kind of a habit—this. Every second day or so, you’d find time after work to grab a few boxes. Nico didn’t mind; you paid the same amount and letting food go to waste would be folly. Then, your car would keep driving through the busy ways of Gotham—avoiding hitting any jaywalkers who thought they’d get through without looking left and right, at least. And it didn’t stop until you made it to one of the shadiest sections of Gotham.

Park Row. Well, now very kindly renamed to Crime Alley.

In case, y’know, any tourist felt like it was a good idea to explore the section of Gotham whose name screamed ‘if you don’t leave and you die we’re blaming you and you only’.

Often, you’d worry that your car would get scratched up for the few moments you weren’t with it. But nowadays, it wasn’t that big of a worry anymore. Though you did hang around your car just in case.

Before you’d even gotten out of the car, you caught a glimpse of a wild, curly bob peeking out from behind a dumpster. Dark, doe-ish eyes accompanying it, before a scrawny body appeared.

And when the first one did, so did the others.

One by one, children emerged from their hiding places. All ages, all races, all appearances. Most of them as well off as every other one of them, but eyes shimmering with curiosity and familiarity at the sight of you. Your heart warmed a little at their hopeful expression, and you climbed out of the vehicle to greet them.

A boy in a dirty green hoodie raced up to you to hug you, grinning jubilantly. You embraced him, and bit back your frown at the feeling of bones more prominent from his ribcage. Food had to be tough to get here. Pulling back, you ruffled his dirty-blonde hair, brushing ash and grease out of it.

“Hey, guys,” you spoke softly, though you knew that even through the slightly brisk wind blowing through the alleyway, they’d hear you. Standing from your slight squat, you opened your car door, unbuckling the boxes. “Got you some more stuff to share.”

Each and every child received at least some food. You handed it out, bit by bit. And those old enough to know to share did so. Your heart stammered, jaw tightening. These kids deserved so much more than the remnants from your coffee shop.

But who were you to claim so when you couldn’t give them more?

You could barely keep yourself afloat.

Their thanks echoed around the small crowd of kids, some of them embracing you quickly and others merely observing you with watchful, sunken eyes. They seemed so much older than they really were, with their eyes retelling the many gruesome horrors of Park Row. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you brushed through the matted hair of a raven-haired girl, nodding and casting your eyes down in slight shame.

Every few days, after your work, you’d come to these kids with food. You’d feed them, and talk with them, and make sure that they were getting by. And maybe you were the only one to ever do so.

Was it selflessness, or just un-Gothamite stupidity?

“You should become Batman,” one child suggested after a while, chipped teeth gleaming in the fading light beginning to emit from street lamps. You reeled back a little, amber lashing at your memory.

 _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s just a kid_ —

“Me? Batman?” You chuckled softly, leaning onto the ground with them as some still ate. Slow. Savouring the food, and waiting that they could have another taste in a day or two. Shaking your head, you sighed. _Kids and fantasies_ . “Sorry, kid, I don’t think I have what it takes to be _Batman_.”

“Sure you do,” the boy responded, frizzy hair bobbing with a nod. You were sure he had to have some sort of hint of what you meant. Maybe he just needed some semblance of hope. “You help others.”

You gnawed on your lip, voice trailing off.

Bruce Wayne did a lot for this city. Things you could never even compare to.

Lips curving into a sad smile, you tilted your head a little. “I’m sure it takes more than that to be Batman. But if you want, I’ll just be… me.”

_Do you really want that, though?_

After a moment of consideration, the kid nodded, seeming to be satisfied with that answer. And then, it was just simple small talk amongst young kids. Minors, living on the streets because maybe their lives at home were worse. That is, if even half of these kids had safe homes to return to.

You wanted to take some of them in, you really did.

You barely fit yourself in your apartment.

Heart sinking, you checked the time. You still had some work to do, not to mention that hanging around too long in a crowd in this area, of all places, was bound to get unwanted attention. Whether it’s a curious cop, a strange passerby or—as it usually ended up to be—a psychopath.

Eyes burning and darting around nervously, you said your goodbyes, embracing some kids, hoping that they’d make it to the next few days to return as well. And then, you clambered back towards your car, chewing on your lip.

You wouldn’t let your guilt kill you. Damn it, you wouldn’t.

Collapsing behind your wheel, you rubbed your eyes, slight hints of misty moisture rolling off your palms. You were tired and sad and angry at this city who took childhoods. On one hand, you loved it here. And then there were moments like these, where you could never give people enough. Or, at least, what they deserved.

Shaking your head, you let out a soft, damp sigh, locking the car in case some bozo got the idea to try and sit into the passenger seat and zoom off with you. Your fingertips trailed to the polaroids, haphazardly left in the cup holders after not bothering to bring them back to your apartment. A cold, heavy feeling settled in your gut at the idea of looking at them again.

You picked one of them, an ashy texture on it, and willed yourself to look at it.

Oh, right. The one with Bruce Wayne smiling under mysterious circumstances. Inhalation of Joker gas? Maybe a really good pun? Who knew. What you knew for certain, though, was that whoever made him laugh in what seemed such a genuine smile for the camera had to be good.

And then there was the boy.

He was a bit in front of the remaining—and now deceased—Wayne. He looked young, but despite the similarities in eye and hair colour… hell, even certain parts of the facial structure.

They couldn’t be related.

Your heart kind of felt a tiny bit warmer at the idea of Bruce Wayne interacting with children, of all things, and not looking completely awkward doing so. It was nice to see that despite his claims, he was still immensely human.

Tentative, you turned the photograph over. Met with a plane full of ash and debris—had to be from falling into the rubble of the manor. Previously, there had once been writing. Now, completely marred.

All it said was _Hey Bruce, remember_ —

The handwriting had to be the boy’s.

How old was this photograph, anyway?

You’d never know, you’d suppose. Still, the photograph was pretty. Worthy of reminding that Gotham could still hold warmth at times, and that moments like this existed.

Smiling tiredly, you set the photo into your jacket pocket. Maybe it’d give you some semblance of optimism or luck. Or, even better, fend off some amber-eyed spirits.

* * *

_Jason’s POV_

Today was a slow patrol day.

Well, then again, it was only four or five-ish—last time he saw a clock and checked—and most of the idiots of Gotham found it was better to be an idiot once what little sun the city had fell and it was just dark with lots of artificial lighting. So. Um. He may be relieved now, but by the end of the night he’d probably have to figure out how to sew so that his jacket doesn’t fall apart from those guys carrying knives in Gotham.

On one hand, good job—it’d be stupid to not carry one ‘round here.

On the other hand, fuck you. ‘S not like he has the money to buy seventy spares.

One of the main reasons he patrolled around here—Hapling Hills, his former home and paradise for a few years—was because he knew what it was like. Park Row wasn’t exactly known to be a safe neighbourhood, and cops pretty much refused to aid that situation. He’s pretty much the only hero around here.

Though hero may be glorifying it a tad.

Then there was also the dilemma of other crime fighters. Gotham being Gotham, only three or four of ‘em speeding about doing the police department’s job was not nearly enough—still, awkward. Not to mention that brotherly reunions weren’t exactly ones he was looking for, and he wasn’t seeking to feel completely inadequate next to _Robin_.

Or Red Robin. Or whatever his name was.

Jason hoped that fucker got sued by the fast food franchise.

Either way, internal monologue aside—wait. What. Okay, whoever’s selling drugs to the kids—

A bunch of kids, just. Um. Chillin’ in Park Row. In a crowd. Near boxes.

Look, Jason’s done this whole vigilante business for a while now—he sees something weird, he doesn’t report it to the idiot cops and instead goes to investigate like he’s applying for a job from the Scooby Gang. So he does exactly that, with swinging ropes and softly thudding boots that land in a kinda-gross puddle.

He’s glad he’s always got the helmet on as Red Hood. Makes him feel a bit more… safe.

A few kids perk up at the sight of him—yeah, he recognised some of their faces. All of them kids, somehow sitting together while there’s the distant noise of a few cars speeding by this rough neighbourhood. Nobody liked to stay for long. Makes his job and staying hidden easier.

“Hey, kids,” he queried tersely. This might be the first time this has happened. Or at least the first time he’s witnessed this happen. Either way, they all wave, though some unused to attention and with that, scurrying away or eyeing him and the bright, crimson logo on his chest with a lot of caution. He would’ve done the same thing, were he back to being their age. “What’s goin’ on here?”

Oh God. Now he sounded like a cop.

Gah, he hated cops.

“She came back,” one of the kids piped up, apparently chewing on something. His first instinct being prying the kid’s mouth open and making sure it’s not actually drugs, but. Y’know. That’s kinda creepy and molesting and he couldn’t imagine having that done to him and now throwing up with anxiety immediately. The boy who had spoken to him first continued, “But then again, she always does. She’s Batman.”

“No, didn’t you hear?” Another boy, with immensely frizzy and unkempt hair, interjected. He stayed unmoving, eyes darting about from child to child who seemed to content with being here. Like someone—or some _thing_ —had… soothed them. “She said she didn’t wanna be Batman. She’s just her.”

Okay, enough with the goddamn pronoun game. Or else this would get much too confusing for him.

Damn it, it was only five in the afternoon. Or evening. Or whatever.

Point is, it was too damn early for this contemplation thing.

“Who is ‘she’?” He finally voiced, slowly and curiously. Crouching down to the kids’ levels, so that he wouldn’t have to talk down on them. Because, uh. Even with his obvious slouch, he was still fairly tall and awkward.

“We don’t know her name,” another girl responded, joining the conversation. Dark eyes boring into his helmet in a way that made even him slouch a bit further. Yeah, he got kinda meek around kids. Probably because the only so-called ‘father figure’ he’s ever had was the sole definition of antisocial rich boy who wallows in a cave full of bats. “... Only gives us food and stays for a few.”

Right. Not hanging onto that at the moment.

While the idea of internally roasting B until something interesting happened around here was interesting, this was slightly intriguing. He nodded, silent now, and grappled away from the kids after the usual saying of ‘stay safe’. Heh. Safe, in Crime Alley? That’s a joke if he’s ever heard one.

Though, then again he’s heard too many.

As he sat on the ledge of one of the rooftops away from the kids—not on a gargoyle, because only stupid people with stupid capes did that kind of stuff—he mulled about. He was hungry, and those brownies he had the other day were becoming a brand-new craving he never knew he needed. Goddamnit, brownies. Of all the things to make him crack, _brownies_.

He’d thought about you for a while now. You and your coffee shop. Good tea, good food—and as much as he would never openly admit it, good company. You were… nice, to say in the least. Not too pushy, and willing to spill intel. Only few Gothamites managed to stay as unassuming as you—with the way you didn’t even blink when he claimed he was one of the ‘good guys’, he wanted to shake your shoulders and ask you whether you’d skipped Survival 101 in class.

Ah, yes. That had been a fun class. Though in Gotham, it was necessary.

He was pretty sure there was some philosophy in that book saying ‘don’t trust randoms with information if they don’t have a gun pointing to your head’. And you may have laughed if he told you that, but when some asshat gets the mickey outta you because you listen to too much gossip, he’ll have to shake his head.

And then, you were gonna walk home. Alone. At, like, eleven freaking PM when he should’ve been out on patrol about half an hour ago. Again, the urge to shake your shoulders had been strong, but about seventy of his other self-preserving senses had been stronger so he refrained from rattling you like a ragdoll. That was. That was probably smart on his behalf.

Thing is, you were _strange_. Awfully nice and sharing, yes, but strange as well. Even with your open nature, the bandaid on your nose still confused him and that entire scenario had probably roused more concern from him than the fact that someone had spotted his stupid replacement for you to hear about.

Man. Gotham was… well. A mess.

It’s like nothing had changed at all since the few years he’d been gone.

And now, this lady who could possibly be a psycho or some sort of child army incident. Honestly, he’s probably the least trustworthy—but also least trusting—Gothamite, which obviously helped him leap to the conclusion that this woman they’re obviously all hailing as their Batman-figure-saviour. He’d just, uh. Well, he was always the worst with these kinds of plans.

He shut his eyes as he shoved those thoughts away for now.

 _This isn’t a few years ago. This is today_.

Heavy-hearted, he contemplated the idea of swinging into your coffee shop in his full garb, but he was sure that whatever the fuck you’d pulled on that guy the other day—whom he hadn’t seen hanging around despite the fact that he’d been stalking some of Penguin’s crew—was something he didn’t need in his life. You were great and all, but really.

At the end of the day, he couldn’t tell whether it was him that was scarier.

Or that Ghost rumour.

Or his crippling self-hatred issues.

Or, plain and simple, you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. Writer's block and filler chapters - just what every author needs.  
> Honestly, I'm sorry if this is shitty. I tried some development for the reader character, and then moved towards Jason's POV, and while I wouldn't say it's messy because it (hopefully??) flows, I just wish I could pull off something a little better or engaging. Though, thank you for all the kind comments and love this story has already received, as they've kept me going and happy. So, hope you enjoyed this chapter and hopefully a new chapter (with some more of that good development of plot) will come soon. Thanks, guys.


	5. Night Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I finally did it. It's a bit of a better-ish chapter.  
> *Warning: This chapter contains **violence**. There are mentions of blood, so don't read if that discomforts you.*  
>  Thank you guys so much for all the love this story has gotten so far. I can't believe that it's going so well only 5 chapters in. I'll try to keep going at this pace, and write to the best of my abilities. But I'd also love to hear feedback, and your thoughts on this chapter. Stay tuned :)

That stupid amber spirit had finally left you.

At least, it had left your sleepless nights. One night of good sleep had done miracles to you, and you were much less jumpy around the shop. It also gave you the coherency to listen in to plenty of conversations and get the most recent scoops from around the city, coming from different murmurs or complaints. Somehow, Dent’s crew and Riddler’s crew managed to hang around one another, interacting and gossiping about recent events.

“Yeah, we don’t trust Penguin’s boys no more,” one of Two-Face’s men scowled across the coffee shop. He halted when you momentarily glared at his surly expression. Turning back to the group, you still had a chance to listen in, straining your ears. “Psycho-assassins and they’re not killed? Sounds like foul play.”

“Yeah, those guys obviously knew ‘em to not get hit,” one of the Riddler’s gang members agreed, a few hums of agreement weaving through the small group. “Maybe Cobblepot paid some extra cash.”

“I thought all his caches got blown up on that Halloween thing.” Okay, you had to admit that was a fair point. How _did_ the Penguin manage to pay up if he’s busy running a club, getting arrested _and_ had his cash blown up from… well.

You figured it was best not to even _think_ about him.

“Well, I heard he’s been yankin’ on some strings,” another of Dent’s men responded, and at that moment, the bell to the shop door swung open, a cold gust of wind flowing inside and mingling with the aroma of coffee beans. You signed for Kyung Soon to go work on some stuff in the back.

Eventually, the guys shuffled out of the store.

The store was usually pretty empty around afternoon-ish, so it was no bother for you to round the counter, grabbing a muffin and sliding it across the table. Last booth, as always. Seemed to have become a thing for the two of you, as you sat down and he finally glanced back up.

Jason was pretty alright. Really, probably your only half-friend. Though, you barely knew him so far, so that may be overstating. Maybe… someday, it would be comforting or a habit to have him around and socialise with him.

“How’re you feeling today?” You queried, head tilting to the side. This was normal for you to do with people you’d already gotten to know, a constant reassurance that everyone around you was alright because honestly, you’d met a lot of people who were very good at faking it until you talked to them.

Jason’s fingertips slid across the counter, grabbing the plate and eventually moving towards the muffin. Eyes slightly red—immediate alarm bells. Hopefully not high. But the dark circles under his eyes and the devoid expression could only tell you so much, so you just had to hope that he was not the type of person to be addicted to drugs.

Finally, Jason murmured, “Could be better.”

You pursed your lips, leaning back. At least some semblance of honesty was finally coming out from him, though it was kind of confusingly sad to see how lost and unsure he was of his own answer. Figuring that it would be the only way to continue the conversation, you asked gently, “Wanna talk about it?”

As expected, he slowly shook his head, some of his dark bangs falling into his features with the movement and out of his hoodie. Shoulders hunching a slight bit, and eyes trailing further towards the table. You let out a shaky sigh, then nodded. “That’s okay,” you paused, then added, “If you ever wanna talk, though, I’m here.”

Yeah, that… that was okay. Talk among acquaintances. Maybe, one day, friends.

Jason’s eyes darted up again, to bore right into you. Indiscernible emotions whirled behind them, and finally, he tilted his lips into this ghost of a smile. He finally eats some of the muffin, shoulders loosening again. “Thank you.”

You purse your lips, then nod. He looked pretty tired, and honest—if it were up to you, you would’ve already started prying a bit further just so he could vent or something. Seriously. How could one guy be so miserable and down-in-the-dumps?

Letting out a soft exhale, you stood from the table again, figuring that today was not a talkative day for Jason. Which was fine. There were other days, so no need to rush for either of you. “Shout if you need anything, yeah?”

And then, you moved back towards the counter to take new orders, missing the slightly more comforted smile on his face you sensed, anyway.

* * *

It was only a few hours later—still late, though—when you finally headed home. Information supplied to Jason that you still didn’t question, albeit him not staying around as late and heading someplace else. So you closed up shop alone, and had your own journey to make.

Tonight, though… tonight was tense.

The wind was too cold.

Or maybe you didn’t know what was off. But the moment you left the sanctity of the Hub, Gotham wasn’t its usual, distant blaring noise or ripple of water. There was no moonlight in sight—not even the vague gleam one broken shards of beer bottles. Just… darkness.

May be a high reminder that there was an oncoming storm, but. That wasn’t it.

Something was wrong. Even worse than that stupid manor.

You shivered a slight bit at the breeze, then quickly stashed the keys to the shop and letting your eyes dart about on the empty streets. Patting your jacket pocket where the polaroid still stayed with you. Maybe that’d… maybe that’d help a little. Bring some sense of normality and security even though there was a high chance some maniac could come stab you. Swallowing dryly, you shook your head.

This was Gotham. Paranoia had to be normal.

Quickly, you began walking back home.

Wind howling, your fingers digging into the slightly worn, yet smooth and somehow vaguely warm fabric of your jacket. Your body not needing to instruct your legs which way to move anymore; you’d gotten so used to it that even with the unusual jitters, you’d find your way back home _blindfolded_. If, you know, there wasn’t that chance of someone trying to mug you when they spot you waltzing around Bristol blindfolded.

But, honest. You wished you could admit that everything had been fine. Or at least, something you thought you could handle on this one night.

Gotham shouldn’t scare you anymore, as someone from Bludhaven—the weird stuff was considered ‘normal’ and people from Bludhaven regularly vacationed in Gotham. And you’d learned to handle the people here, with your customer skills and all. In fact, some even _respected_ you. And others… well. Some might say they feared you—

But you were sure you feared them more.

Because there was someone at the end of the alleyway you were walking through. In the way of your home route, your association of ‘normal’.

Obviously, it was inevitable; you couldn’t just always be in peace in fucking _Gotham_. In fact, you had already had the chance to experience… _moments_ where some guys tried stopping you. And now, uh. Well. You’ve stayed alive up until this point, so there was that.

The figure hadn’t moved an inch. It just stood still, rooted in its place almost like you just stood there, staring slightly dumbfoundedly. Tension brimmed in your gut uncomfortably, yet you couldn’t will yourself to tear your eyes away. If you ran, something was bound to happen.

That figure could not possibly be human.

Just like that, a glint of red came from the figure at the end of the alleyway. A silhouette whose expression was obscured by amber lights from behind, mingling with the crimson glow. Couldn’t be a smart phone.

The street lights were suddenly a lot more… _red_.

You took a sharp breath in.

Maybe you could try calculating your risk with this… _inhuman_. How quickly would it take to just turn back and run away? Who knew whether this figure was armed. Or faster. You stood like a deer in headlights, jaw clenched and brows drawn together in slightly rising paranoia. Mouth dry, and not a single peep coming out.

Just gaping. As if you had never understood what made Gotham so odd.

“Oh, you seem particularly eager to die.”

That’s all the figure said. A light of blood, pouring smoothly from the figure’s spindly-looking fingers. Your heartbeat rose alarmingly, not a single noise escaping you as you stared in wonder at the flickers, the embers of something that shouldn’t be possible.

It shot towards you.

Brisk flickers of light moving like a poison. Faster, faster, faster. Rippling down the filthy bricks and mingling with the scent of smoke like someone’s artery sliced open. Your senses began screaming. It was loud, and the pounding in your ears harmonised with another howl coming from the wind or perhaps something else inhuman in this cursed city.

Before you knew it, your breathing was harsh, lungs frozen and legs lead as the light creeped closer and closer to you, a hair’s breadth away—

The light drowned in the darkness.

God, that was so stupid. Gotham needs more street lights.

 _That’s your chance._ Damn it, that’s your only chance—

You turned on your heel before anything else could stop you. Blood rushing through you like that simmering crimson as you began sprinting back. Away, away, away towards where safety had been, _for fuck’s sake where were you meant to find safety in this godforsaken city_ —

With that, your mind lurched and a very unpleasant chorus of _ohgodohgodohgod_ resonating through you. Because, really.

Did you have any idea where you were running to?

Or was this just delaying the inevitable?

Heavy footsteps—boots—were audible behind you. One moment they were further away, soft splashes of puddles discernible. The next, they were loud and booming, as if someone was running right next to you and about to grab you—

God, Gotham. One moment you had a freaking demon-Batman- _myth_ making you haul ass from a photography site. Which was still unsettling you for the time being. The next, _this_ happened. This bullshit only happened every once in a while in Bludhaven. Screw this.

By this point, it was either you had already surpassed hysteria a few minutes into this chase around the blocks of Bristol or your coping mechanism was being an idiot.

You rounded the next corner, heart thudding loudly and shivers violently carding through your system. Stars jabbing at your retinas and your stomach twisting with terror.

The amber light engulfed your vision, and you suddenly felt awfully sick.

This was a very bad nightmare. You had to get away, outta here—

When you turned into another alleyway, in hopes of finding at least _someone_ in a fairly abandoned section of Bristol—because there may have been hope for that once.

It was there again.

You screeched to a halt at the start, joints jerking together and heart drooping with a fright. Cheeks cold, lungs heaving, eyes wild and body tensed.

Eyes now as red as his vividly-bright crimson fingertips, you could make out sections of a male’s features. Long, raven hair, straight and flowing and fading into complete and absolute darkness. Equally dark lips, twisted into a rueful grin that seemed to be _enjoying_ your fear. Inky lines running across his features, and a wicked gleam in those glowing eyes. You were standing in front of something that was no longer human, as you spotted the crimson liquid drip from his fingertips and onto the damp, slippery asphalt.

What was worse—not knowing what was chasing you, except for that fiery glow surrounding a dying house.

Or this human, completely detached from humanity?

The glow dissipated, and suddenly—

This time, the red shot towards you with zero remorse. Faster than a bullet.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and not even the cold breeze deterred from the sweat on your temples, the way your head pounded as if _something_ was trying to break out in protest of the red light—

Adrenaline was taking over, and your lungs spiked with toxic terror—

They impacted. A harsh, painful sensation.

 _Particularly eager to die_ often implied that whatever those red wisps were, they were lethal.

But. You were still. Still standing. Alive.

Your eyes flitted down quickly, feeling as if they were lost in time. Halting at the sight of red wisps winding around your forearms like a soft, billowing flame. Even then, it didn’t touch either sleeve of your jacket once; only an odd, vaguely burning and intrusive sensation came from it.

It was much less red. Much less amber.

Just… bright. Blinding in the darkness.

This was a curse. Or a hallucination. Otherwise, you had no physical explanation for any of this.

The longer you stared, the more you felt whatever energy the light held enter you, your vision sharpening and mind clearing with the pain. Fatigue was a thing of the past, and your cheeks felt awfully warm and sharp even with the coldest of breezes beating down on Gotham’s skyline tonight.

This is what your family had warned you about. The whole deal with inhuman stuff—

The alley walls shone with soft luminosity around you, your eyes trailing to each and every ridge. And in the midst of it all, the bright red lights, beating against you with little to no conviction. Forming to your will, and entering your body in short stabs while circling.

It seems that the figure—the man, you had to remind yourself, he was just not a very human man—had moved closer in the short span of time. Eyes glowing a bright red, with undertones of onyx. Determination creased his face. But with each step forwards and the exhilarating magic exiting his winding fingertips, that determination softened into…

That may or may not appear as _fear_.

_Joke’s on you, asshole._

“That’s… unusual,” came a dry, croaky comment from the man, voice much less sinister than before. Vulnerability visible, though you had to conclude that it could only be feigned. Your eyes narrowed dangerously, glowing with anger towards the man. His palm had a visible cut, soaked in inky matter while his fingertips lost their vermillion glow. He hissed, “You should be dead.”

You clenched your jaw, brows creasing with the energy filling you and powering you. Eyes dangerously fixed on the man, _daring_ him to make a move that he might regret—

The flow of what appeared to be magic stopped.

Now, you finally saw the man. A bit taller than you, but eyes wide open to reveal void, dark irises which searched across your features in incredulity. He seemed at a loss for what to do, now that you seemed to have surpassed his so-called magic and lethal spell.

In the blink of an eye, silver gleamed in his hand, sharp and dangerous. It was like an extension of the man’s arm. It drew back, then flung right towards you—

Most of the dagger shattered on impact with your skin, only a shallow cut signifying that it hit its mark in your shoulder. You staggered back, drawing a sharp gasp in, as you watched a fiery red swallow the man whole.

The alleyway was empty.

You stared blankly ahead, blinked rapidly so that your eyelids ached, but he was _gone_. Whatever adrenaline—whatever power—you’d had slowly sank into the back of your mind, and you felt your knees buckle a little. The sting of the cut was a bit more prominent now, the warm, wet feeling of blood trailing down the sleeve of your jacket discomforting.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice quiet and raspy as if you’d been screaming but never knew. Your hands shot up to your arm as you sank to the rank alleyway ground, bricks and asphalt equally cold. Your lungs struggled to fill themselves, and it felt like there was a hole inside of you.

You fingers moved to your jacket pocket. That stupid, _stupid_ polaroid. It was meant to protect you. All it had done was set off this chain reaction of events leading to that… _person_. Maybe person was too much. Whoever or whatever that was, it could not be a person.

Taking a deep, long breath, the stench of cigarette smoke filling your nostrils, you leaned your head back, shutting your eyes. You could feel the picture in your pocket while you tried staunching the blood in the cut—it was clearing out, anyway.

Whatever the _hell_ that was, it was clear that Gotham was beginning to refuse to give you a break. Come on—you ran your coffee shop, people were nice. Now all this had to happen? Was it just in your blood to get into bad, weirdly mystical stuff?

Suddenly, your jokey mood left again.

 _Someone came back_.

Your shoulders tensed together again. Not necessarily ready to fight but willing to struggle. Really, you were capable of fighting back—but did you really want to? Maybe it was just. Um. A kind human being who is walking through alleyways of Gotham this late for not specific reason?

Okay, maybe you were screwed.

Your eyes snapped open once more, vision flickering through both sides of the alleyway. In the delirium, you saw nothing or no one. Great. Now you were gonna die unassuming—

Suddenly, you were minutely aware that someone was standing right in front of you.

Fear laced your mind again as you felt the stinging of the cut recede slowly, your hand carefully moving away from your left arm and the jacket sleeve. Your palm covered with dried, rusty liquid that your lip curled downwards at.

You lowered your arm, and decided to attempt and focus your eyes instead. Heart hammering a little, throat dry and tension boiling in your gut again. Eyes meeting thick boots, and panic immediately flying up your throat—

Boots connected to sturdy shin-guards. Even in this vague darkness, you could see the individual scratches, and the shit those guards going up to knees must’ve gone through. Then, cargo pants, two gun holsters. Guns both there, alongside explosives and other gadgets clipped to his legs.

This was not the guy from before.

The further you craned your neck up, the more was revealed to you. The white, grey and beige leather jacket, with what appeared to have splatters of crimson on it. A white shirt, clinging tightly to an immensely muscular torso with a bright, red insignia. At first, you were concerned it was a bat— _please no anything but a bat anything but a fucking bat_ —but the longer you stared, the more you realised that it was more close to the shape of… a bird.

A very geometric, creepy shape of a bird.

And then, you finally stared up at where there should be a face. Except it… wasn’t. It was bright red, as red as the blood splatters and the rust on her palms and the insignia on his chest. And it almost made you feel sick, because _too much red too much red_ —

But as you gaped up at the figure, your brain made connections. Conversations you’d listened in on finally clicked, descriptions of a vermillion shadow and gunshots added up. And with every thought, your expression twisted into something more akin to genuine fear.

So.

This was what the Red Hood looked like in real life.


	6. A.M. Interactions

Red Hood. Right.

He had to be at least six feet tall, with the height he had over you. It didn’t help that you were on the ground, dried blood on your palm and jacket and just gaping up at him as if you’d seen a ghost or some killer. Which, uh. Had already happened. So your argument was kinda invalid.

Point is, he looked _scary_. Face or helmet or whatever.

You blinked rapidly, lowering your hand in a struggle to stand or at least scramble away from the man. Besides, there wasn’t much you knew about the Red Hood. You knew he was a vigilante. You knew he chilled in Gotham.

You knew he killed people.

… Then again, that was like pot calling the kettle black.

“Are you alright?” Was the quick, curt question that cut through the silence, voice slightly muffled by the helmet but still clear enough in the darkness and silence. You flinched, halting midway in raising yourself from the ground to peer back up at the mask. No change of expression—though, then again it would be weird if a freaking _helmet_ could change expressions.

Without a word, you nodded. Pressing your chapped lips together as you finished staggering to your feet.

Much to your dismay, though, you didn’t get to stand on your own two feet for too long.

Faster than you could register, your back hit the wall in a dull thud, pain blooming from your spine and crinkling your jacket. You flailed a little, trying to ground yourself and find balance in the sharp movement—though this was how you discovered that the tips of your shoes barely even reached the ground, scraping once, twice, before a tight sensation emitted in your neck.

You were being held by the collar of your shirt, to direct eye level with the red-helmeted mystery. Or so you assumed, seeing as you couldn’t see his eyes.

“Then what the hell was that.” The words were no longer polite, nor were they in any way reassuring. You sucked a sharp breath in, the collar of your shirt not proving to be comfortable when held by the vigilante. Your feet still trying to find some sort of fickle leverage. Your brows raised as you realised it wasn’t even a question; it was a simple, cold demand.

“I—Idon’tknow,” you stammered out, voice raspy and vaguely confused. That change of mood had almost given you whiplash, and had you known any better, you’d say he was playing good-cop, bad-cop.

Only he was much more of a bad cop than any real cop.

“Try again.” This guy wasn’t letting up, was he? Red helmet burning as brightly as the symbol he chose to don on his chest, waiting for an honest answer. But you couldn’t give him that, could you? Not when the real, undiluted truth was bound to send you packing. Try another city, this time further from Bludhaven, your homestead and far, far away from any fucking vigilantes.

If you told him the truth, you’d compromise your identity. And the witch-hunt would continue.

You had to think of _something_. Damn it—

“Okay, okay,” you breathed, struggling to even choke those words out when the grip on your collar tightened, almost asphyxiating you immediately. Your hands raised in a fickle surrender. Because there was no damn way you’d dare try to hurt this guy, not when you knew he’d probably put five bullets in you before you were done. Steadying yourself, you began your twisted tale.

“So there was this, uh… this guy,” you explained, voice barely over a normal tone. But he had yet to move. Which, uh. Couldn’t be a bad thing. But didn’t have to be good either. “And he had all this red magic and ‘m pretty sure there was blood and—well, he looked really fuckin’ creepy.”

With the few seconds of silence, you heard the masked vigilante mutter something under his breath, something alongside of ‘energy readings’ and whatnot. Your breath stuttered in your chest, and you shut your eyes for a few seconds as you prayed to whatever deity had never cared about Gotham would protect your from a gruesome fate.

“How’re you not dead?” Your eyes snapped open, and your head tilted the side in mild confusion, a breath puffing out of your lips. Brows scrunching in slight perplexion, before Red Hood continued pressing, “The guy. Leaves bodies. How’d you get away from the magic man?”

Oh, well fuck. How are you meant to explain that one? _Y’know, he got kinda scared’a me after I started absorbing his magic bullcrap and necked it after jabbing me, no biggie_. That didn’t seem like a reasonable excuse. You took a deep breath in, before bullshitting your way through what was hopefully the last question of this interrogation.

“I ran,” you defended yourself, eyes searching the crimson hood for… something. You didn’t know what. Maybe a few reasons not to kill the guy before he found out about something he really, really shouldn’t know. “After a bit, I lost him. He just… vanished.”

You held your breath, hoping that he’d buy the answer. That the twin handguns hanging in his jacket wouldn’t come to use tonight, that you wouldn’t feel the cool metal of them pressing to your temples.

You’d recovered from quite a bit—but getting shot in the head sounded rather lethal.

After a few moments of silence and unbroken stares, you felt the inhumanely strong grip loosen. The tension vanished, and your legs felt the cool asphalt ground beneath again. You stumbled, sucking in a breath as you willed your legs to work for you. Officially cowed by the vigilante before you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice was a little softer now, less rough and willing to murder or maim. Your brows scrunched together in surprise at the softness, when you noticed his helmet was angled towards your left arm, where the dried blood had soaked into your jacket and there was an obvious tear.

You gulped, and nodded. Trying to brush it off as nothing, even though that stupid knife that had disappeared along with the mystery man had created one hell of a sting. “‘M sure it’s nothing—”

Before you could resist, Red Hood had already gripped your left arm. But it wasn’t necessarily painful or as harmful as the grip that had previously been on your collar; it was _gentle_. Honestly, this man was giving you whiplash with the way he could change his moods. Albeit terrifying, it was also… intriguing.

He studied your arm carefully, inspecting the cut visible. You knew that it wouldn’t take long for you to take care of it; by tomorrow, it’d be practically nonexistent. Though, you didn’t need to tell him that. Just needed to entertain him for as long as he was here.

He glanced back up at you—or, at least the helmet tilted upwards. “How did this happen?”

“He, uh… kinda threw a dagger at me,” you admitted, this time not lying. It was still lying when you withheld sections of the truth, though. Well. You’re sure he had zero shits to give about your moral integrity. “But it’s okay.”

More silence. This guy was obviously the brooding type. Maybe it was that, or something else, that made you so curious about him. Compared to the kinda-grim Robin who was way too adult-y and that Nightwing guy who seemed so happy doing his job he might as well be the cheerleader or vigilantes.

Then, a dry response, “You shouldn’t be out alone at night. Or ever.”

“Well, I kinda don’t possess the social life to have someone walk with me—”

“I don’t care,” he shot back, obviously not leaving any room to argue. You narrowed your eyes, heaving an annoyed sigh. Who the hell were you _meant_ to walk with, then? He shifted on his feet, then moved a little bit further away from you. “Lead the way.”

“Wait—you want to walk me home.” Your voice was incredulous, and you were pretty sure it had every right to be. The helmet was empty, but you could feel the aura of nonchalance and obviousness oozing from the man. Your eyebrows were raised on your face, but all that met you was ultimately silence.

You sagged your shoulders, defeated. Muttering a few curse words of your choice, you began walking, strolling right past the vigilante and beginning to find your way home. Glad that Bristol had practically been memorised in your mind, and that you’d find your way home easily at this rate. With or without Red Hood becoming your apparent bodyguard.

For a while, it was silent as you walked, rain a soft patter that eventually dampened your locks and shoes. Red Hood didn’t pipe up, and he kept trailing behind so that at times, you felt like he’d already left because, obviously, he didn’t give a shit. And gah, it was so weird yet vaguely reassuring.

Finally, you couldn’t hold your burning question back. Spinning on your heel as you stood under the amber lull of a lampshade, you turned to face the vigilante, who merely slowed his pace to a halt at the sight of you. “Do you do this with every person you rescue?”

His helmet tilted a little, and at that moment you bothered to notice that despite the height he had, his shoulders were… slouched. As if he were swaggering about, yet the movement deliberate enough that it couldn’t just happen to be natural confidence or shyness.

“So far, I’ve had no people to rescue,” he retorted quietly, though his gloved fingers flexed and curled a little as if he were unsure whether that was a socially appropriate answer. Most of the time, you’d say no, but hey—you didn’t mind some sarcasm, or dark humour, or perpetual dryness coming from vigilantes. You’ve dealt with a lot worse.

You inhaled deeply, trying to press past the frustration and receding anxiety of the night. Eyes boring into the hood, as if that would help reveal the mystery man beneath and clear some things up for you. Alas, nothing happened after that except for the unearthly buckets of rain pouring from the sky.

You kept walking, this time slow enough to have him linger at your side.

Finally, you reached your apartment building, as dark and abandoned as the rest of the neighbourhood here. Could have to do with Mayer Gordon usually scrounging cops around every corner of Gotham to make sure citizens were safe—though that was obviously still a work in progress, you mused with annoyance. But it was… quiet. And okay.

You figured you might as well not be an ass and have some manners for the vigilante. Even if he did kinda try to half-strangle you.

“Thank you,” you muttered, peering up at the helmet. Immediately, the vigilante seemed to tense a little, helmet angled away from you. “For, uh. Making sure I don’t die an’ stuff.”

After a slow beat, dragging itself on, he nodded. And then, he quietly responded, “Just make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, he began walking away.

And you felt a sickening sense of deja vu.

* * *

The cut had healed.

You moved around the shop in a perfect and normal rhythm, running on approximately zero, if not plagued, sleep and the desire to not become homeless. Kyung Soon clearly noted your exhausted demeanor, with her tapping your shoulder several times and giving querying looks through her small, brown-onyx eyes. Every time the light went too dark in her eyes, you had to blink rapidly to tear the image of bright red magic illuminating that similar shade of eyes—

You’d dismiss her quietly, feeling a lump growing in your throat.

The good thing was that, on Saturdays, the shop always managed to loosen up with its flow of hectic customers. Weekends and all. But still, work day.

Another good thing, though, was that your brand-new friend—that is, if you stood on that level with him—would get some brand-new information his way. Hopefully without interruptions.

Your movements were practically automatic, scooping up the mug and the small teapot before moving to the last booth. It was warmer in this corner, and there were few enough people for you to smoothly glide to the seat across from him and hand him the mug. Setting the teapot down until further notice.

“Got some news for you,” you murmured, letting him take a sip as he slouched into the seats. Your fingers fiddled in your lap as you waited, blue eyes—dark, sunken circles under them—trailing up for you to continue. You leaned forward a little, then informed, “I met a vigilante last night.”

Jason stiffened a little, taking another, longer drag from his mug. You felt your stomach sink a little at the idea of having to tell Jason anything about being attacked by a _magic man_ before the Red Hood swept in late to save you. Yeah, seemed plausible. After a while, you saw him nod, although he had yet to utter a single word.

“Ever heard of the Red Hood?”

He paused again. Eyes flitting around the shop suspiciously, brows scrunched together in concentration. Then, he turned back to you, finally placing the mug on the table and playing with the hem of his hoodie. “Yeah. Just, uh. Word from others.”

“He saved me. Kinda.” Sorry, Hood—you had to save yourself there.

Half a beat of silence. “I thought he killed people.”

You shrugged, blinking as you saw the guns.

How easy it could’ve been for him to pull the trigger.

Knot in your stomach, you let your eyes wander around the hub. “Maybe. But. I don’t know. He did have these weapons and stuff, but he didn’t use ‘em.”

More silence. All that was audible was soft, atmospheric music coming from the speaker near the TV, and the rattling of Kyung Soon working the coffee machine.

“How’d you meet him?” He finally queried, tone awkward yet vaguely curious. You shifted in your seat a little, fingertips intertwining under the table and nails digging into your palms a little. Oh, this one’s gonna be a doozy. It’s either that Jason was an informant for the GCPD, or he was a mob hand.

Then again, he said he was one of the _good guys._  Neither of those options fit the criteria.

But what the hell was under his definition of a _good guy_ in Gotham City?

Ah, screw it.

“Well, that’s another thing,” you continued, eyes finally resting on his features. Boring right into his eyes. “This guy was chasing me through the streets, with all this. Well, uh. Shit, ‘s gonna sound really silly out loud and not in hysteria—”

“You can tell me.” Tone open, yet still piqued with interest. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your raising pulse as you untangled your fingers under the table.

“He, uh…” Your tone lowered to a whisper. You were leaning across the table now, glancing around to see if anyone was paying attention. “I’m pretty sure it was a blood sorcerer.”

Jason’s eyebrows visibly raised, blue eyes displaying slight perplexion. You let out a soft sigh, before you quietly began explaining everything.

“You know, people who use blood magic to pull magic shit like telekinesis or more complex things,” you rambled, voice never raising above a loud whisper despite the fact that no one was even present to hear you. “I dunno, I just found a lot of books—”

“You found books on blood sorcery.”

That was a deadpan voice if you ever heard one. Maybe he was having a difficult time comprehending your ramblings. You probably sounded insane to him. You shut your eyes tightly, willing the red out before you leaned back a little—personal space and all.

“I know, I know, s’weird,” you sighed, dragging a hand over your features. Slumping in your chair, almost ready to fall asleep right then and there. “But if you know anyone who does anti-witchcraft things—”

The bell to the front door rang, and you jolted upright, head angling to check on who that was. Some guy in… awfully rich-people-ish clothes.

It’s like Bruce Wayne’s ghost came back from the dead and possessed a young man.

When you glanced back at Jason, you saw him completely tensed. Shoulders strung, jaw ticking, eyes burning into the new customer. Something akin to fear and despair seemed to flash in his guarded eyes. One glance at you pleaded for _something_ —maybe he’d explain later?

You took a deep breath. Obviously bad news for Jason.

Now you seriously had to question what the hell Jason did in his spare time.

A quick ‘be right back’ later, your chest was tight as you hurried behind the counter, giving the man with sunnies concealing a large majority of his features a curt and polite smile. “Hi, what can I get you?”

“Strongest coffee in store, large,” he spoke absentmindedly, adjusting the clearly-expensive trench coat on his form. You blinked rapidly, jotting down the peculiar order—in the middle of the day, geez—before sliding the paper over to Kyung Soon. Like clockwork.

“That’ll be four dollars,” you informed quietly, flinching a little when you were handed a fifty-dollar bill like it was nothing. Had this asshat never gone to a coffee shop before? God, now you had to scrounge up all the change—

“Keep the change,” was the only response from the man, who now ran a hand through slowly-growing locks of hair atop his head. You blinked again, a little more rapidly this time. But didn’t object.

Hey, customer’s always right.

And extra cash from a snobby, rich person? Geez, why not.

Before you knew it, the order of the strongest brew you had in the hub had been handed over to the man in a large cup, takeaway. He thanked the two of you, and your eyebrows scrunched together as you came to a realisation. Just as he left the store.

That had been, uh. That was Tim Drake.

Like, the biggest CEO in Gotham ever since the whole everything before.

He’d just come into your shop.

Your eyes widened, lips parted as you gaped at the man strolling down the street, into a sleek car. Much sleeker than the entire neighbourhood.

You turned to Kyung Soon, a surprised expression on each of your faces, before you grinned at the young girl. Patting her hair, and wordlessly praising her great work.

Finally, you steeled yourself. You moved back to Jason’s booth, knowing that there were still some unanswered questions left. As you took a seat, you noted how awfully—and painfully—tense he was.

“Hey. You alright?” You queried softly, hand momentarily resting on his shoulder. His entire body jolted a little at the contact, eyes snapping to meet yours in a vaguely-surprised gleam. You halted, figurative electricity crackling through your fingertips and moving through your system.

You had to focus. You were trying to check up on him.

After a long while of silence and gaping, you eventually withdrew your fingers, just as he slowly nodded, head lowering. The corners of your lips twitched upwards and you moved back to your own personal space bubble, figuring it’d take him time to come out of his.

You swore you saw his eyes burn up with something other than surprise, though.

But within moments, you steadied yourself. Kyung Soon was out back, undoubtedly preparing to call it an early day and celebrating. Your heart warmed a little at the idea. However, you finally got to business.

“So, do you know anyone who knows witchcraft stuff?”

He raised an eyebrow, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his features. Could’ve been a trick of the light, though. “Yeah, you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe,,, I actually posted something.  
> So, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I'm super tired, but this chapter was hopefully worth it. Then again, apologies if you see any grammatical mistakes or dumb shit that makes you squint at your screen. I'm trying.  
> Anyways, as always, feedback is appreciated, so if you guys want to leave some I'd love to hear it. Whether it's me unintentionally rushing things, the characterisation being off or yada nada, let me know. Thanks, guys. Stay tuned.


	7. Noon Studies

Apparently, it was very easy to move from being an intel source to being the source of witchcraft.

That’s what seemed to have transpired as you and Jason sat in the Coffee Hub, discussing ideas on blood magic while you were glad it was a slow day and Kyung Soon wouldn’t be able to hear you. Though, you of all people being his reliable source for this stuff was, well. Honestly?

Kinda endearing.

Though, when you offered to take this conversation to your place, where you actually had the books—which you were gonna have to brush down as store-found and just vaguely authentic-looking—he kinda paused a little. Lips parted, brows raising, eyes sizing in on you. It was just a momentary pause; though, long enough for you to take note.

He thanked you for the offer quietly, meekly.

Almost inaudible.

But somehow, you managed to convince him.

And that’s how you got someone to actually walk home with you, able to close shop early and thank Kyung Soon as well as send her off. There was a quiet moment of victory inside your head—suck on that, Red Hood, you actually had a person to walk with. You brushed it off as you finally locked the door to the shop.

With that said, Jason and you only made small talk as you walked, with him raising questions on your knowledge of sorcery you couldn’t really answer well. Because, come on—how weird would it be for him to find out that you’d _written_ all those notes? Each day gathering new thoughts, ideas, facts and statements. Finding it difficult to not overfill the books to the brim.

A woman with a pearly smile flashed in your mind. A pretty top hat.

Finally, you made it to your apartment building.

“Home, sweet home,” you mumbled ironically, digging your house keys out of your pocket and brushing your fingers past that ashy polaroid. Your stomach twisted in mixed emotions as you unlocked the door, hearing a soft scoff from Jason at your little remark.

What could you say? Your sense of humour was great.

You carefully opened the door, letting your new companion and then yourself in. You also duly noted that Jason’s shoulders seemed to have tensed up a little with his entrance. That may be something you might have to address—just, you know, make sure he was alright and stuff. In slightly deliberate movements, you brushed past him softly, leading the way up the stairs.

Elevator’s been busted for a while. They said they’d fix it.

You highly doubted they ever would.

Third floor in, you finally ended the climb, feet moving in an almost-automatic rhythm to your apartment door. The hallway was always immensely dark, resembling a Rob Dobi photograph, but you didn’t mind anymore. As long as no shadows moved too quickly or uncharacteristically weird, it was fine with you.

Were you ashamed with your state of living? Well, no. Everything was mostly immaculate.

You just had to hope that you’d hidden your secrets well.

Unlocking your door, you unceremoniously swung it open, inviting Jason and yourself in with a tilt in your lips and a quiet announcement of, “Welcome to my humble abode.”

When you glanced back, you noted his expression once more. Curious, but tense. He seemed to don that expression a lot, especially when it came to new environments. Eyes scanning your apartment in a manner that could initially look like he was judging, when really… he was _analysing_.

Uh. What he was, well, analysing, you did not ask.

“Alright, well,” you snapped him out of his silent, calculating trance, meeting with cerulean again. A shy smile curled on your lips, trying your best to encourage him to not be as… _anxious_ —though, that would undoubtedly take some time and work on both behalves—as you moved further into the apartment. Stripping yourself of your jacket, and staying in your simple, tight long-sleeve so you could feel, well. At home. In your own home. “I’ll go find the books.”

You moved towards the shelf in your living room, squatting down to scan through the many titles of your many books. Glancing over, you called, “You can sit down on the couch, make yourself comfy,” and then smiled triumphantly when you found the books you wanted. Tugging them out of the shelf with an extended amount of care, you stood from your squatting position, spinning on your heel as you announced, “Found ‘em.”

Movements casual, you took a seat next to Jason, the space cozy on your vaguely-small couch. Maybe just seemed smaller due to the fact that Jason was fairly big, but you felt the heat radiate off him and figured you might as well get comfortable. Setting the books down on the coffee table in front of you, you leaned forward to start explaining.

“So, blood magic,” you commenced, flipping open the first book and smiling softly. Your old notes laid out in front of you, written in a lovely pen you didn’t own anymore. A quick glance to your right confirmed that he was listening, eyes scanning over the pages fairly quickly and jaw tensed with concentration. “Obviously, you need a knife an’, uh, a desire to do some semblance of magic.”

Well. I mean. If you were gonna explain, you were gonna do it your way. Not the arcane lore of some Wikipedia website on the dark web. Not your style.

“As you can see on these pages,” your fingertips traced softly over your very own handwriting, eyes scanning the various paragraphs intricately explaining each and every aspect of blood magic. Not how you spent your time nowadays; hell, you’d practically banished these books to the back of your head. But if this guy was willing to do something with that information that kept you anonymous—at least you hoped, seeing as Jason was an enigma within an enigma—you were more than willing to help. “The uses for it are very various. And also forbidden nowadays.”

After a curt moment of silence—his eyes hungrily taking in every little bit of the pages you had displayed—you subconsciously leaned forward at his side, curiosity playing at the tips of your mind. Questions plaguing you in the comfortable silence.

Whether or not he could even be trusted with this information—not that you could do much about it now, unless you wanted to do something you were bound to regret before you even did it.

What had happened to him before you’d met him. You didn’t like to pry—but he walked with a slouch, there was a very prominent scar on his cheek that you could also very prominently sense he was ashamed of, alongside those other, smaller scars. You just wanted to help this man, try to make sense of things so you could at least understand.

And what he’d actually do with this information.

Instead, you stayed silent, opting to play your cards at a later time. When you knew him better, and could hopefully make a better judge of things. He finally glanced at you, quietly asking, “Where’d you find all this stuff?”

You shrugged, keeping your mouth shut about the true origins. Maybe… maybe one day. When you’d been admitted into an asylum. Or the world was about to die and you needed to confess something really random. Or maybe when you lost common sense, completely blindingly trusted Jason with zero questions, and spilled your guts about the secret sorcery trip you had a while back—

“Thrift stores, mostly,” you brushed off, flipping the page to the next set of notes, all still on blood magic and its enchantments. “Some’a this stuff is probably from the attic—”

You cut yourself off before you could finish that statement, freezing and feeling your cheeks go cold and your throat closing. _No, not at home_. You were home right now, in your apartment, _here without ties to your past and not home not home not home_.

“Okay,” he responded slowly, and you had this fun feeling that he believed approximately three percent of your statement and your askew behavior. There was a short moment of silence where you two just leaned against one another, and you would’ve been kind of content to never move again— “And are there, uh… counter-acts of this stuff? Like avoiding the magic?”

You furrowed your brows, lips pursing. That was… an odd question. Not bad, but just odd. Was he planning to fight the guy who tried killing you? Like, on his own?

Maybe Gotham was just for the crazy people of the world. Like the ones who do magic using their blood.

And people who fight said blood sorcerers with nothing but what appeared to be their bare fists.

And then there was the special type of crazy, which held you.

Screw it—you were throwing caution to the wind. Let’s entertain him.

“Well. You can’t exactly _avoid_ magic, I don’t think,” you pretended to search the lines on the page, trying your best to play dumb so you didn’t fully slip up. After a few moments of your heads close together, scanning through the contents of your book, you shook your head. Your subconscious liked this new warmth, so despite your anxiety, you kept talking. “‘S magic. Will probably kill ya if you get too close.”

His shoulders sagged a little, and you pretended to be engrossed in the book when his head tilted towards you, eyes searching. You regained control of your breath, straightening a little as you continued, “But there’s obviously ways to deflect it. Whether it’s destroying it, absorbing it or deflecting it. But obviously, to do that you’d need to know magic stronger than the person doin’ it.”

Or, as you have it, luck.

Even though, in this world, that was a stupid, stupid word.

With that thought, you dug into the pocket of your jacket hanging over the arm of the sofa closest to you. Fingers brushing past the polaroid, and amber associating itself with it. Because, really—was there a thing such as _luck_?

“Right,” Jason finally responded, tongue quickly darting out to wet his lips before he leaned into the couch. Some semblance of comfort finally visible on his face, even though you knew damn well it’d take time for him to work through whatever he had on his mind. “Now I just need to find someone who does magic. In Gotham.”

“Yeah, tha’s gonna be fun,” you retorted lightheartedly, eyes tracing over the pages of your book. Man, imagine if he found out you’d written every single word in this. Sighing softly, you shut the book, a soft thud resounding through the room. Leaning back at Jason’s side, shoulders pressed against one another as you began, “Y’know, you’re probably gonna think I’m crazy for this.”

“Try me.” You left a soft smile curve your lips upwards, head tilting to the side to glance at him. On one hand, he could seem completely unphased by anything life threw at him. But then there were those times when mere eye-contact seemed to completely throw him for a loop. Or maybe that’s just the side you’d seen to him so far.

“I know that we’ve only known each other for, like, a week and I’m kinda your intel person now,” you began slowly, head leaning back and eyes tracing random patterns on the ceiling. You still had some pent-up energy inside of you, from last night where that sucker had failed to kill you with his blood magic. “But you really believe me? I mean, ‘m tellin’ ya about magic and sorcery and honestly, it’s kinda weird you haven’t called someone yet—”

You cut yourself off with a deep breath, shoulders sagging and brows knitting.

_Don’t say too much just yet._

“I believe you.” He said it into the silence after a few beats of silence, hanging with nothing until those words. Your head tilted forward, and you saw that he seemed to be mimicking your actions, head leaned back to gaze at the ceiling as well. “I mean, yeah, s’crazy. Like, bat-shit crazy. But I don’t think it’s the craziest thing ‘round here.”

Well, he had a point.

“Yeah, thanks for the pep-talk,” you responded with a small smile, finally stretching your legs out and relaxing into the couch. After a few more minutes of vaguely-awkward silence hanging between the two of you, unspoken words tangling in the air, you figured you could ask. You were giving him intel and you were awfully curious about him and his life, anyway. “So who’re you gonna go to for magic stuff?”

“Dunno yet,” he sighed, scrunching his brows together. You hummed in response, noting brand-new information. Obviously, he had a way to actually enforce whatever intel you gave him. Now the real question was _how_ ; if he was on the police force, it’d be obvious by now. Day job and all. But if he were a private detective or something along those lines, he wouldn’t necessarily have to handle the _action_ part of it. “Maybe I’ll have to look around.”

“I could look around for you.” Wow, you were a great liar. You didn’t know anyone in this city, let alone a magician. And it’s not like you could waltz up to him and inform him that maybe you could kinda help—

“You’d do that for me?” You tilted your head to the side, letting one corner of your lips tilt upwards.

“Yeah,” was your light response. This was what they called a favour. And you being an intel person-being. And, uh, helping people of Gotham City to get weight off your conscience. “Do you want me to?”

“I—I mean,” in your peripherals, you spotted the slight heat evidently rising up his neck and dusting his cheeks, smoothing over freckles and his dark circles and light, faded scars. He looked a bit younger with a blush. Made your fingertips itch for your camera. “I mean. ‘F it’s not too much trouble an’ stuff…”

“Done,” you smiled, leaning forward and standing, scooping the books back up in your arms. Of course, the rational part of your mind tried reasoning with you—you barely knew the man, you had no idea what he did with the information, and now you had to try to find a magic person for him because yes, apparently that’s a valid thing. But the other side of you—the more sentimental, helpful and awfully guilty one—knew that you might as well help.

Help was the only thing you could give to make it all go away—

A loud crash resounded outside. Maybe just a block away. It followed with silence, and then some screams and gunfire. Your shoulders tensed as you set the books down again, rushing to your window and peeking through the always-shut blinds.

Smoke. There was… smoke. And yelling. Maybe already sirens in the distance, in action. You knew they wouldn’t make it in time. Your mind reeled a little at the sight of fire, more gunfire—

Jason was at your side within seconds. You sensed him behind you, glaring out the window as well. Maybe this was the type of stuff he took care of? You couldn’t have predicted it. Bristol was usually quiet-ish with only few incidents, so this was… something. Before you knew it, Jason was shifting away from the window, with the rushed phrase of, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait, you’re kidding,” you halted him in his tracks, hand on his arm despite the amount of electricity that crackled in the air in response. Tension high, and the imminent feeling of increasing danger higher. He turned back to you, cerulean orbs burning with a fiercer undertone than what you had witnessed so far. “You’re not. You’re not goin’ out there, right? Tha’s insane.”

He visibly paused, lips parted and eyes flickering as he thought out some kind of response. Seriously, he better not be contemplating running out there unarmed and picking fights with bullet fire—

You cringed a little at the next round of gunshots.

“I—I gotta make sure people are alright,” he murmured, one hand softly tracing over yours to loosen your grip on his arm. Somehow, your will to hold on crumbled with zero explanation. “Assess the damage. Call some people.”

“And these, uh— _people_ ,” you responded, worry coating your voice. Body torn between wanting to keep Jason here so that he doesn’t, y’know, _die_ , and also wanting to run out there, help some people out and maybe do some things that you’d only be able to forget with alcohol. “They’ll handle this situation?”

His brows lowered a little, mouth tightening into a straight line. He stood in front of you, and you no longer had a hold on him which meant he could’ve left without another word. Besides, he didn’t owe you anything. Not an explanation, nothing. It’s not like you had genuinely settled to call one another friends just yet.

“They’ll handle the situation.”

You heaved a deep breath out of your chest, guiding him to the door of your apartment. Just before he left, though, your stupidly blunt and over-considerate ass blurted, “Stay safe, yeah?”

He seemed to pause again. As if he didn’t know what to do with himself every time you said something like that to him. After a few heartbeats, he finally nodded, quietly responding, “You, too.”

With that, he was down the hallway, down the stairs, and gone.

You pressed your lips together to avoid giving a frustrated yell. More gunfire audible in the background, causing your shoulders to jolt together uncomfortably. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Jason wasn’t your _friend_ —he was just a guy you gave info to and somehow felt obliged helping out of his sad funk. Besides, with his figure, you were sure he could handle himself.

Then why were you so worried?

After several moments of hesitation, you cursed loudly, slipping your jacket back on and running down the stairs with your keys in your hand. You barely made it past the first alleyway when you spotted a gunman, obviously strolling the streets in hopes of finding a new target.

His back was turned to you.

This was your only, dirty chance.

Humans were excellent hunters. They could often outlast their prey to take it down, or outsmart it in ways it could never fathom. With thought-out techniques, they could take down even large, hostile animals.

And sometimes, the hunting game shifted towards human versus human.

That was when you cheated.

Sneaking up to the man was easy. You’d done it quite a few times before; it was always easier to catch them off-guard, give them less of a chance to struggle. And amongst the vague silence only broken by sirens and dying screams blocks away, you were masked.

You grabbed the man’s throat.

One hand, that is. Immediate reaction—panic. Your leg kicked at the hand that held his semi-automatic, punting the rifle to fly several feet away from you. Too far for him to reach in time. There was a strangled, gasping noise coming from him—an attempt to scream.

You didn’t like it when they struggled.

But the struggle ceased soon enough. With your grip on his neck, there was no way he could move, especially with your… abilities.

Your veins glowed a little, blood rushing with the new, energetic feeling in your body.

He stopped struggling altogether. Dead weight, no pulse. You felt far more awake and far less afraid than before, even as the man slowly began dissipating right in front of your eyes. In your grip, which eventually just held mere air.

That’s another life in Gotham, wasted and gone.

Maybe you’d feel guilty about it tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whee we got some fluff  
> So, this happened. I think this was a bit too sunshine-y so guess what????? Next chapter's gonna be,,, well, fun. Idk. Hopefully something half-decent because I think I almost fell off my chair in frustration writing this. Is this the writer's life? Maybe. Idk. Pray for me.  
> Thanks so much for last chapter's feedback, though! I've kinda been lazy with genuinely replying because I suck, but I saw the comments and they were great and appreciated. Would also love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, but just wanted to point out my gratitude so far because really, this is already more than I deserve.  
> Anyways, stay tuned and let me know about things lmao. Thank you guys :)


	8. Late Night Thoughts

There was no remorse to feel, you tried to reason with yourself.

He was a crook and he had a gun and he’d kill more people in your neighbourhood. You just did everyone a favour by getting rid of him. Right? I mean, the police weren’t looking for him anymore, after having come through just in time to see all of the men tied up together, blood and gashes and barely conscious. It was reported that the Red Hood had been spotted in broad daylight, and everyone wondered how those thugs were still alive.

Well, all but one.

You dropped off boxes of food to the kids in Crime Alley afterwards, trying to soothe your conscience and force your lips to tug upwards at their grateful faces. And your heartbeat was still irregular. One-hundred and eighty-five beats per minute; not overtly high but still higher than the normal, active heart rate you should have.

It just made your stomach turn a little, heart feeling like it was trying to pump a hole into your chest.

By the time any semblance of daylight was gone, you were at the closed-off bridge of ACE Chemicals.

On that fun night in Gotham where everything went to shit and even Bludhaven had to evacuate, somehow ACE Chemicals managed to completely burn to bits as well. A nasty cloud was the after-effect, but it had eventually been blown away with several storms and gusts of wind.

And Mayor Gordon had promised that it’d be rebuilt and the security would be improved so freakin’ Scarecrow couldn’t just march in there with his ideas of terrorism. But there were other things to attend to in this shithole of a city, so the project to rebuild the chemical facility was put on hold.

Which meant that no one was there.

Perfect for you.

The last time you’d done this, it didn’t end in fun and games. But you couldn’t hide or be a coward about it forever, so you stepped out of the car, polaroid camera slung around your neck and cozy jacket doing its best to shield you from the biting wind. It was comfortable, to be alone. Even when every site you visited was a wreck of debris and still faintly smelled of smoke.

It was a fair distance, from the closed off bridge to the actual island where the building had been made. You definitely couldn’t jump. But even with the distance you didn’t mind, figuring you could some photographs and maybe just sit and think.

After everything, you really did need to slow down and think.

You clambered and sat on a ledge of construction board, laid down onto a section of the large posts holding the bridge up. Feet dangling, any brash movement forward most likely causing a steep fall into water below. But the salty scent of the ocean water surrounding Gotham’s CBD made for a comforting type of area. So calm, unlike the turmoil raging in the streets behind you.

But. Your thoughts.

First, the guilt was slowly beginning to gnaw at you. Your stomach empty in a kind of hunger that couldn’t be sated by food or any material in the world, arms limp and heartbeat still struggling to slow down to a reasonable and rhythmic pace. Every time you tried not to, you just ended up thinking about how that man went limp in your grasp, cold and unnerving and just as horrible as any monster that may lurk the streets.

Because really, you might as well be just as horrible.

You’d promised yourself you’d lay off the constant disappearances. The cops were starting to get suspicious around the area of Bristol, and you didn’t need to give yourself up. But sometimes, you were just so hungry for that rush of energy and at the end of the day, it was worse than any drug on the streets.

And other times, your anger would not lie still until you destroyed the reason for your anger.

Then, you’d guilt yourself—like you’re doing now. You’d feel horrible about it and thus try to help everyone in your sight, giving out food and offering jobs and handing out solace and intel for free. You were that horrible, really, that your first afterthought was to try and fix the fact that you were still a murderer.

And then there was Jason.

Jason. Where to start with him? You weren’t sure whether you could say he was a friend; that had to be his choice, at the end of the day. But he was nice and confused and kind of adorable, while managing to also keep an aura of constant danger and anxiety around him. How he did it was beyond you, but he did and with every glance, he intrigued you more.

There was obviously a story behind him. Everyone had one. But this one seemed to leave permanent scars, both physical and mental. And then there were those secrets he was trying to hide, and the pure desire to know more about _witchcraft_ , of all things. For a normal person, that would never add up in a million years because obviously, he knew and wanted to know this stuff for a _reason_. And no, it wasn’t the people he was allegedly calling.

You weren’t stupid.

There are no people.

Something with him was very, very askew.

Sighing loudly, you leaned back a little, shoulders slumping as you reached for the polaroid around your neck. ACE Chemicals, from a distance, was undeniably photogenic. The ruins covered in stories of mixed chemicals and hopes to find a new compound of energy. The signs on each, thick pillar faded into almost nothing, burn marks covering the once-bright posters.

It had so much rich history.

But all it took was one explosion to tear it all down.

You raised your polaroid camera, gaping through the lense to see whether you’d be able to make out anything. After all, shitty quality was not unlikely. And the flash on the small camera would most likely not do much, either.

Thank goodness for vaguely-bright moonlight.

You had to take your shot before a cloud came by and ruined it—

 _Click_. The film slid out of the camera and you grasped the end with your fingers, setting the camera back on your sternum and slowly shaking the photograph. Maybe it’d end up being a nice one. Keep a little, vague memory before they completely started renovating it after everything.

You didn’t doubt that maybe one day, you’d look back at this photograph, shake your head and smile at the idea of being able to sort out your thoughts alone, with just yourself and a camera. It was peaceful, much less hectic than the constant orders and grinding of beans and pouring mugs of tea. Because really, at the end of the day, what you genuinely liked doing was capture things in a photo.

For example, the memory of Gotham.

When it was torn down, bare, vulnerable. In ruins. Completely broken and dark, waiting for its moment of glory when it would be rebuilt and solidified as stronger.

Maybe one day, you’d find the ability to photograph people the same way.

You let a soft smile grace your face at the developing film, pretty and vaguely illuminated enough to have the scrappy letters of _ACE_ and the orange-ish poster stand out on the dark and charred walls. This was… okay. This was alright. The amber was pretty—

There was rustling behind you.

And then, the hairs on the back of your neck stood.

Okay, that’s it—you were officially cursed. The reason that red magic didn’t kill you was because you were cursed. Your guilt? You were cursed. Everything was because you were so ridiculously cursed that the moment you even _thought_ about… _it_ , it was right there, ready to rattle the bones out of you and maybe even leave you in the same demise as the few unfortunate souls who have encountered it.

You inhaled a deep breath, meant to calm you.

All that entered your nostrils was cold, smoky air, with a hint of a chemical stench.

Finally, you dared to turn around. Slowly getting to your feet, checking to stay away from the ledge.

This had to be how you died.

The wall mere _feet_ behind you had been blank, worn brick the last time you checked it—as in, the moment you sat down before you were gazing at the chemical plant. It had been slightly dirty, yes, but dirty in a sense of that grime had gathered on the rough patches of brick, and that there were strips of paper torn away, leaving ugly marks behind.

Not dirty in the sense of an entire mural.

Well, mural was a compliment, really. It was dark, scratchy, rushed. But it was long, like a spider’s legs, and it split like the cracks of that brick wall had become sentient and created it just for her viewing.

If it weren’t so terrifying, it might’ve been aesthetically pleasing. To some.

The contents of this wall, though, made you tilt your head. You tried reading it, a circle with stuff scrawled into it. Darkness made it difficult to read. However, with growing horror, you realised exactly what had been drawn on to the wall, several times. So obsessively that it looked like a lunatic had been jotting it, over and over.

You drew this on the wall that night you’d discovered the… _thing_.

It was a sigil, protecting against demons and evil entities. Could probably be looked up, yes, but not with ease.

You’d been alone when you drew it on.

_What the hell, what the hell, what the hell_

You felt short of breath, dizzy even. Footing slipping a little, but your body jerking you upright to stay away from the ledge. And even though you thought that was the worst thing about it, it really wasn’t.

In the midst of the wild sigil-scribbling, each one looking identical but so damn messy, there were words. They oozed some sort of immensely dark ink.

Part of you tried to reason that it couldn’t possibly be blood.

But all it said to you was one message, plain and simple. Only you’d understand.

**_GIVE_ **

**_IT_ **

**_BACK_ **

You let out a shaky breath, lump forming in your throat and heart rate skyrocketing again. This could not possibly be healthy for your body. The stress, the fear, the fact that this had better be a very bad joke by some idiot with stealth gear or something.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, it wanted the polaroid. Obviously the one with the smiling boy and Bruce Wayne. Why? Was it Bruce Wayne himself, from beyond the grave? Or, worse, was it the boy, demanding what was truly his, back?

Either answer was unpleasant. In fact, any answer was unpleasant.

Your throat tore at you to scream. Every fibre of your being wanted to get away before it snatched you up, leaving you as another disappearance that, for the first time in a while, wasn’t caused by you. All you’d end up as would be another small, insignificant news article, something about a coffee shop owner gone missing with no friends and family that would genuinely give a fuck. And then, that’d be it.

The end of your life.

You didn’t talk about life and death much. It was a random topic, and one that was mulled about for too much. But now, you squared your shoulders, sweat forming on your temples as your brows knitted together. If you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die stupid and young and with no meaning.

Finally, you caught sight of a small, almost indiscernible detail on the ground.

Another polaroid.

You were going to lose it. You were gonna go insane and be shipped off to Arkham Asylum or whatever mental facility was close by. They’d give you electroshock therapy and even after ten straightjackets and a mouthguard, you’d still be losing it.

With a lot of hesitation, you reached out to the polaroid on the ground.

You fumbled with it for a while, fingers shaking violently and teeth chattering this time not due to the cold of Gotham. And then, you stood up straight again, eyes boring into the contents of the image.

You swore your heart stopped.

At first sight, it was unrecognisable. A dark alleyway maybe, an aesthetically-pleasing bird’s eye shot from a rooftop. But then, the familiarity of the photograph soaked into you like wild and pelting raindrops would, and you shivered and let your shoulders shake through the fabric of your jacket.

There was light, too.

At first, you thought it was some kind of filter, the light bright and energetic and so blindingly _crimson_.

On second glance, you saw the light coming from fingertips. A cut on a bandaged hand.

 _Blood magic_.

That was just the tip of the iceberg—the genuinely terrifying man who could’ve easily killed you with lethal powers. He was there, and his magic was strong and winding through the composition of the photograph like some kind of live and celestial snake being.

On the receiving end, there was just mostly brightness.

Shielding away from the magic, flowing into the receiver’s arms and glowing brightly. Illuminating every vein filled with iron and stardust and blood.

That was _you_.

Your stomach dropped. Someone had been _there_ the night you’d fended off the blood sorcerer, watching on and witnessing the true potential from both sides. They’d— _it_ , the Ghost, _god whatever it was_ —been there, and they’d watched as you revealed one of your biggest, most haunting secrets.

That you had the powers of a killer.

You felt like you were gonna throw up.

Internally, you cursed as you decided to stash the stupid polaroid of you, in that alley speckled with blood magic. Whatever evidence didn’t get out to the world, you were content with. And then, you felt the slight irritation boiling in you, battling for dominance with your undiluted fear. “You want that photograph?”

You have got to sound insane.

Shuffling in your pocket, you yanked out the curse of a polaroid you’d had since the exploration Wayne Manor’s ruins. Glaring into the sky where it was slowly starting to rain again—because yes, the default setting on Gotham’s weather is, in fact, rain—as you held up the damned polaroid. That stupid photograph of an endearing boy with Bruce Wayne, alongside zero context of the marred back except the slowly-uncovering words.

_Hey Bruce, remember to ___e a _a_ o_f n_w & _g__n. _

One initial smudged out. The other a _T_.

You held the photograph up, glaring into the sky with balled fists and your eyes burning. “Come fucking get it.”

And with that, your voice of reason crashed through your mind. Taunting a ghost—you’d really reduced to taunting a ghost. With haste, you set the stupid photograph down at the foot of the mural, before hopping off the ledge and beginning to stride quickly towards your car. Damn it, why’d you have to park so far away—

You heard… rustling. Leather.

A cape?

_Shit._

If this stupid spirit or prankster or whatever wanted to play, you’d play. You extended your polaroid camera, glaring into the lens towards the ledge to see whether you’d have any success in finding some idiot. Through the broken fragments of brick walls, or the slowly-ageing construction material, or the ‘ _DO NOT ENTER_ ’ signs you’d passed a long while back.

Your feet began dragging you backwards. Away. Away. Away.

_What the hell—_

Before you could even stop yourself, your index finger pressed down in a jerky manner, a loud flash illuminating a wall of nothing and what you swore was a bit too dark to be a shadow. Your shoulders rattled with a loud breath similar to a gasp. And the second your fingers grasped the polaroid, you turned and ran.

Legs piling through abandoned equipment, a traffic cone or two. Rustling hot on your heels, heartbeat accelerating alongside your legs, _faster faster faster—_

You collapsed into the safety of your car. Locking the doors, fingers fumbling with the engine as you struggled to keep stars out of your eyes. Your eyes burned and your cheeks felt like they were being torn apart as you sucked in sharp breath after sharp breath. Fingers gripping the steering wheel and mind reeling.

With hesitation, you began driving away. You could check the polaroids later. Now, you had to get away from whatever you were facing at ACE Chemicals. Maybe it was leftover fear toxin—maybe you were just imagining everything.

Abandoned alleyway in Chinatown. You parked your car after checking that no thug was there to break your windows, then leaned into your seat. A cold sweat still on your forehead, body still trembling with leftover energy.

You picked up the polaroid you’d shoved into your pocket haphazardly. It had developed.

On first sight, it was just dark. There was the wall, illuminated and crackled and similar in a derelict structure of Wayne Manor. And then, just a dark sky with vague moonlight. But—there—in the corner.

Long, pointy things. You’d seen that before.

 _Bat ears_.

A violent shiver tore through you, and you suddenly felt a lot more vulnerable than earlier today. You tossed the photograph onto your passenger seat, hoping that you could forget about it as soon as possible. However, when you did toss something that way, you noticed a tiny, tiny detail. A little thing, right in the centre of the seat. Dark texture at the back of it.

You picked it up, then spun it around to inspect.

A smiling boy, alongside Bruce Wayne, gaped back at you.

 _Son of a bitch_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes who ordered one chapter or pure suspense and vague horror  
> So, character development maybe? I don't know. I'm sorry if it feels like a filler chapter; I promise it provides fuel to the story. So please stay patient with me and hopefully you enjoyed this chapter!  
> Also, thank you for the very kind comments/kudos I've been receiving. They're very motivating and endearing, and I appreciate them so much. I always love hearing feedback for my stories, so that I can make sure that the readers stay entertained with the content I write.  
> Anyways, stay tuned and hopefully, I'll update soon. Thanks, guys :)


	9. Midnight Encounters

Jason’s had a long day.

In fact, it’s been a lot of long days, recently. He’d been neglecting the Coffee Hub on sole reasons that, one, researching and staying in had been a bitch, and also that the last time he went, he saw that rich sucker enter before him.

An entire shiver had crawled over him, flitting. A reminder that he should be dead and that he didn’t do his job well enough.

He’d watched from another corner as the Replacement exited with his grande cup of rich-people coffee beans, sunglasses pushed back into dark, gradually growing locks and seeming to enjoy himself. It just reminded Jason that they all looked so similar—his little child soldiers, maybe even clones.

Jason’s fringe had grown quite a bit. He’d made a habit of pushing it back, despite the trauma streak.

He blinked the burning memory away, every time feeling a bit more of a pit in his stomach. Maybe it was still jealousy clinging at him, calling his name. Maybe it was just some semblance of… he didn’t know. All he knew was that it made him feel like he’d fallen into a void and he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt that way.

Now, rooftops. He’s staggering along them, staunching blood flow from his torso.

Bristol was pretty unsure when it came to who owned the streets. Most of the territory was Penguin’s, but that was further away. Maybe that was what made the Hub so likeable—no conflict to break out over steppin’ on someone else’s turf. But this time, he veered too far, didn’t think it through correctly—

 _Grayson would’ve done better_ , a voice chided in his head. Sounded like B, every time.

_And the Replacement wouldn’t have lost his footing at all._

He knew that the guy—the Replacement, whatever fucking name he went by nowadays—was good. He moved well, stayed strong. Calculated. More like B than all of them. Maybe that’s why he knew he could never compare to someone like him. Hell, Jason couldn’t even call him Replacement—this guy was an upgrade.

Wind whipped across the skyline of Gotham. For a moment, Jason forgot his helmet had chunks of it wrecked, and mistook it for the breeze of Arkham’s corridors.

God, he was _angry._

Nonetheless, he could try one apartment to maybe help him out. He didn’t know how much he could rely on the person, but it had been enough for him to learn about blood magic. To not be killed or lured into a trap. To not have a taunting cackle echoing through it, and for whatever contact he’d received there to not genuinely _hurt_.

With that thought, he crashed through a window a few blocks away from his favourite place.

Ow, ow, _ow._ Impact hurt a little, and now he felt smaller fragments of glass poking into the exposed parts of his armour. Some shards almost cutting through the leather of his jacket. Would be a shame, really—he finally managed to fix that jacket a few days ago.

He laid back, breathing shallow. Blood at the corner of his mouth, a recent cut reopened. Another collection to add to the many ugly scars on his face.

Okay, enough self-esteem issues. He had to find help—

“What the hell,” he heard you breathe out, and his head tilted back a little—much to his neck’s dismay—to see your figure standing in the doorway of your bedroom. A quick scan with shaky vision and even shakier tech inside his helmet confirmed that you were not armed. Why, was beyond him.

But he saw your heart rate.

Elevated beyond measure; impossibly high for someone who should have been asleep.

“Are you… alright there?” Was what he heard after a few beats of stunned silence, you finally emerging into the moonlit living room where he’d sat mere days ago. Vaguely, he saw your features contort into a small cringe, nose scrunching and legs finally giving out to kneel next to him. “Shit, never mind. I, uh… do you—do you need help?”

He didn’t dare say a word. Nor did he breathe loudly. Part of it was because his thoughts were jumbled and he had no idea how much he was hurting externally right now, part of it was slight fear that you’d recognise him if he uttered a single syllable. So, breathless, he nodded silently, hoping that it was enough of a cue for you to get him outta this situation.

Jason didn’t rely on people very much. He didn’t trust them, he didn’t know them, and it was usually best to be independent and only answer one of every fifteen calls that Babs— _Oracle_ —sent his way. Let alone the incessant amount of messages and calls he got from Golden Boy, who somehow managed to snag his number. He was considering saving up for another burner phone just so he could get rid of his current one.

But this—god, maybe he needed this. Maybe this was his first test of something perhaps called _friendship_ with you. Part of him didn’t want to trust you; you had occult books and markings in your home, and some stuff seemed off about your past. But you were his best shot right now, and he hoped that he made a convincing case just laying there doing nothing—

“Okay,” you sighed, nodding your head before pressing your fingers to your temples. It was either that his vision was shaky or your fingers were actually trembling. “Okay.”

Weren’t you, uh.

Well, he hated to pry while he was dying, but did you even _have_ a first aid kit for him?

It seemed you did, as you stood up, pacing back and forth and then rushing off somewhere—presumably, and hopefully, where you left your first aid kid—before finally returning. Muttering curses under your breath, and brows furrowed together in some sort of concentration.

He hated to think this while all of his injuries were, y’know. Happening.

But you looked kinda cute.

Your first aid kit was on the side—it was equipped, yes, but it was unlikely to be able to deal with the large stab wounds in his body which were slowly but steadily making him bleed all over the ground and bleed out. And you seemed to note that as well, with the way your brows lowered and you bit your lip, confliction visible in your eyes despite darkness swallowing up the majority of the unlit room.

“‘M gonna regret this,” he heard you mutter, and his heart sank a little, slight confusion and dread washing over him. What were you gonna do? Hurt him? Spare him the pain of bleeding out? Pinpricks of icy-cold air washed over his features, making him clench his jaw inside his helmet as his eyes didn’t leave you but he wavered—

You set one hand on his shoulder.

He waited for further acts of violence.

That was what you were doing, right? Easing his thoughts, before making it nice and quick for him. If he weren’t so damn afraid of what you were gonna do next, poised like that with your eyes wide and not another loud breath leaving your lips, he’d thank you. Despite the guilt and childish fear he should have long forgotten, he’d still thank you.

God, he was a loser.

And he waited. And it seemed to stretch, thin and gradual and _just do it, already_ —

Nothing.

Then, still nothing. But the shakiness, it. It stopped. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t anxiety gripping at him—scratch that, it felt like a completely different _person_ was gripping at the very fabric of his soul.

And as he glimpsed into your eyes, he was not going insane.

He saw them glow.

At first, it was just a faint hue; he mistook it for the moonlight casting an extended light. But then it was there, right there, melded with white and indigo and tints of blue that were only stashed into the fathoms of his mind and he’d never seen in real life.

Except right there, with _you_.

And it enraptured him so much, this glow coming from you and your eyes and fuck, there had to be a reasonable explanation behind this. Something based on science, or logic, or something to reassure him that his eyes weren’t playing tricks.

Once, when delving into the pleasure of books, he believed in magic.

Now, he did not believe in magic.

He did not believe in magic.

With each fleeting moment passing by, where he just stared and felt his body become a lightweight. His bones weren’t heavy, digging into the ground. Muscles loosening. Head tilting back.

For a second, he thought he was actually dead.

That pain had no longer become a concern for him and that this was what the sweet embrace of death could feel like. Light. Airy. Welcoming, in favour of the world and its harshness. And it felt so good, so much better than the pain and the conflict and the violence tearing up the dying iron in his veins—

He felt his body take a sharp breath in, remembering to breathe.

The blood on his torso was still damp, staining the white material of his shirt and mingling with the choppy, intimidating insignia on his chest. The shirt was bound to feel heavy, like he’d soaked in the rainwater of Gotham’s stormiest nights, once he went home. But he felt a tingling sensation, running up and down his arms and his spine.

He moved his fingers towards his torso, where he’d deliberately memorised the stab wounds. Beneath the damp, crimson-stained material.

Not even a single scratch to identify the source of bloodshed.

That was… unsettling.

He felt the warmth of your palm—comfort, he associated the touch with unfamiliar _comfort_ —flinch away from the rough leather of his jacket, away from his arm and back towards your body. Holding your hand to your chest as he vaguely registered the bright, indigo glow dissipate from your eyes to be replaced with the normal, warm shades of your eye colour.

“I—I detect a… I detect a strong strain in your spine and shoulders,” came the hoarse whisper from you, slightly slurred yet definitely clinical enough for him to wonder how the fuck you’d know jack shit about any of his injuries. But—could he really doubt that? When you’d just shown to be able to physically remove two mortal wounds from his body?

“It’s…” You paused for a moment, and he managed to loll his head forward a little to feel more control of his body. Senses returning to his limbs, to every single individual cell in his skin while he felt like he was on fire yet being cooled down at the same time. “It’s too much for me to fix in one sitting. I—I can try—”

 _No. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t_ —

He scrambled to his feet, body feeling like a live wire and mind reeling left and right with new information soaking into his mind, invading. Whether good or bad, he didn’t know.

But he couldn’t handle it right now and God, why did you have to make him feel like this? Why couldn’t he confront you like he could confront any other person, like he confronted B—

Before you could interject with another syllable, he was clambering out of the window. Feet clattering against the fire escape with an unsteadiness he could no longer blame on injuries and hands scrambling to the grappling hook next to his guns.

He was outta there before even _he_ realised what he’d just done.

Several blocks away, in a whole other fucking neighbourhood, he finally stopped running. Breath coming in short gasps, rain pouring down on the exposed features of his face and pattering on his helmet and jacket and dampening his getup even more. The blood stains would stain red on his torso, and he’d have to take a long shower to forget all of it.

What was he doing?

This was… this was _you._  This wasn’t just some random whose apartment he’d crashed into with zero context while half-expecting Oracle to hack his line and reprimand him for depending on strangers to delay his death. This was you, performing some sort of spiel on him which just saved him a painful demise.

And you?

Even though you terrified him to no ends. Whether it was with words, or actions, or gestures or looks or pretty much anything. Because he always knew that there had to be something askew to paint the whole picture.

Even with all that, you were his comfort.

It was… stupid. To say the least. He can see the long, pointed ears in the corner of his mind, reprimanding him for letting _feelings_ get in the way of a mission, for letting sentiment get in the way of him. Maybe claiming that Golden Boy would never mix his normal, reasonable life with vigilance, Oracle would have five contingencies as to preventing that and the Replacement wouldn’t have gotten into this mess into the first place.

It was always him that was wrong. That made a mistake. Screwed it all up.

Not to mention that he hadn’t known you for long, either. He couldn’t truly say that he could trust you. In this line of business, trust was not to be taken lightly. But there was… something about you, something that made him hand over his life for you to save, because he knew that you had it in you. He knew that something in you could make him hand over his body and soul to you, if the moment was right.

And, God, you were so affectionate.

Maybe he was mixing ideals and morals of people, after his long time with… _him_. That wasn’t exactly great, and it messed with his thought process. Especially when it came to emoting.

But after so damn long of just living in hatred, basking in the idea of never forgiving and never being able to turn your back, comrade or not, you were _comfort_. You were whom he could trust.

This was stupid—and overly-emotional—thinking, but he wished he would’ve been able to establish that kind of connection with his older ‘brother’. Perhaps it would’ve avoided a lot of problems, and it could’ve helped him reach out to the missed calls and texts. Dick wasn’t inherently bad or who he was mad at—but it was difficult to like him when he personified every single fear and doubt Jason had about himself.

Still, you. He just ran from you, and there was no doubt you were catching on.

You’d have to be stupid not to be; he hadn’t been doing the greatest job of keeping his mouth shut or his actions muted when it came down to it, and you were smart enough to put the dots together for yourself. Eventually.

Did it terrify him? Fuck, absolutely. His entire body stood on edge at the thought.

But maybe. Maybe he could make it work. Maybe he kind of _wanted_ you to know, as a way of trying to trust you and as a way to see whether you’d stay around or back away at the first signs of him being too fucked up for this world. Or maybe the idea of you knowing did something to him, which he couldn’t explain but didn’t want to change.

There were two specific items he left at your apartment, as his frazzled nerves finally bunched themselves together enough for him to run a self-assessment of his body state. One, there was no doubt some semblance of his blood had soaked into the wooden panels of your apartment floor, probably there for you to either clean up or use advantage of. He’d seen you in action, in true thought; you were pretty damn smart. Surely the idea of sampling the blood, out of mere curiosity, couldn’t possibly escape you.

He didn’t know why, but his gut twisted a little at that.

And then, at one point during this entire ordeal, he’d dropped a fucking flash-bang grenade.

You were smart, he had to remind himself. There was no way you’d pull the plug and engulf yourself in light and the gas inside; a mixture of ortho-chlorobenzylidene-malononitrile alongside the usual benzodiazepines and a smidge of carbon dioxide. A lovely little concoction to not only irritate the eyes, but also help with making thugs drowsy.

You know, hit them with their own, shitty medicine.

Point is, that stupid flash-bang grenade also had his fingerprints on it. And while you may not be a detective to figure that out, you now had a vigilante-issued grenade on your person—one he prided himself on, especially with mixing up the concoction and somehow not blowing up on the spot.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He was so… conflicted? Yeah, that. Probably because on one hand, he was relieved; all crucial evidence and belongings were with _you_. So far, you haven’t given him too much reason not to trust you, despite the whole fucking shebang with your eyes and his torso and literally just everything that’s happened in the past ten or so minutes.

But then there was the fact that you were still technically a civilian, and he was still very much playing with fire by leaving crucial evidence behind on a scene which he had yet to define as a safe space.

 _Sloppy_ , he could hear the gruff voice reprimanding him again. _Risking everything for all of them with his careless and reckless attitude towards this job._

Jason clenched his fists, leather gloves creaking and rain pattering and jaw clenching. All of this was a big, big mess. One he could, by all means, blame on himself just like he blamed everything else that’s ever happened in his life on himself. But fuck, it hurt. And his chest felt tight, like his body was trying to shut itself down. Deactivate in the middle of an active, bustling and recovering city scape.

He glanced to his left. The Lady of Gotham was there, standing in the middle of the water surrounding the city’s CBD. Head held high and proud, still intact. Despite everything that had happened, everything he had done and been responsible for. Still intact.

Very much unlike him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this was a doozy. Angst and snark rolled into one? You got it.
> 
> Look, honest. I am so sorry for the delay. I usually try to write out my chapters as quickly as possible, with only a few days' delay every time, but this one took a little longer. While I had writer's block (kinda; alongside me finding more pages of research to drown into while I hope that the gases I mixed into the flash-bang grenade might be alright individually, but also won't cause an explosion when mixed together **[tl,dr; I am not a chemist]** ), I was also very busy. Y'know. Real life and all.
> 
> Anyways, thank you so much for the positive regard this story has gotten so far; it's been a blast writing and I'm very excited to see how positively people seem to be reacting. Feedback definitely helps boost my quality of writing.
> 
> Stay tuned, and I'll try my best to post another update in due time. Thank you, guys :)


	10. Morning Showers

It was raining when you came to work.

The atmosphere of Gotham had seemed to tense throughout the night, especially with your increasing nightmares and the fact that every shadow that caught your eye seemed to dance along your side, fluttering its dark wings to eventually come and lurch out at you—

Your let out a shaky exhale. Blinking your way back to reality. Kyung Soon was not working today, and it was unlikely Nico would be dropping by today, busy enough with other errands for the time being. This left you all alone in the store, and alone in your mind.

Reluctantly, you tried to bring the store to life. You’d rather be at home, not turning on ambient lighting and cranking up the heater for the poor souls who strolled outside and figured they’d stop by for a cup or some food in your store. You’d rather be asleep, instead of smelling the aroma of coffee beans wafting through the air which usually perked you up for the busy lifestyle your job gave you.

Your shoulders slouched as you leaned on the counter, propping your head up with your hand, which trailed over your jawline. Letting the ring of the bell hanging over the front door register in your mind, before finally propping yourself up to address the new customer.

Um.

Tim Drake returns?

There had to be some sort of fan movie out there named that.

This time, he lacked the sunglasses—periwinkle-grey eyes immediately giving him away. A small, business-friendly smile played at his lips, and you knew immediately that he had to have gotten that from his predecessor to the company. Finally, he piped up, adjusting the brand-new and expensive-looking trench coat on his form as he piped up, “Large espresso, please.”

“Coming right up,” you returned, single-handedly pressing the brew as well as a takeaway cup into the machine. With your other, you typed up the amount due, picking up again with a faux-chipper tone, “That’ll be three-fifty.”

He sent ten dollars across the counter, and you wondered whether he gave an extensive amount of money for just some coffee for a particular reason. Did the rich-people club teach him nothing? Not everyone paid heaps of cash for just some liquid caffeine. With a small tug at the corners of your lips, you pulled out the needed change, stopping him before he could say his signature statement of ‘keep the change’. “I’m afraid I can’t keep the change, Mister Drake. That would be overcharging you.”

A meek grin spread across his features in response to your statement, instead letting you get back to work on his coffee. Despite the fact that your mood was in the gutter, the young CEO seemed to have a knack for making it feel like everything was vaguely okay. Even though you were damn aware that it really, really wasn’t. “Well, you can’t blame me if your coffee happens to be really good.”

Even though you made sure it was subtle, a small smile spread at your face. You were always a sucker for people complimenting your coffee. It just encouraged you to keep going and keep your business afloat in Gotham’s wasteland waters of companies. As you finished off the espresso, beans wafting a delicious aroma throughout the entirety of the store, you glanced up again, a quiet thanks escaping your lips.

When you finished off his coffee, he sent you a warm smile, a lot more genuine than any attempt to charm. It was kind of endearing, but really, you knew he was married and happy. He was just naturally a kind person, it seemed. So you bid him farewell, and let the rich man walk right out of the Coffee Hub with not another thought sent his way.

Your shoulders slumped in slight exhaustion.

If it was going to be so tiring to keep up a customer service facade all day, you’d have a problem.

The bell rang again, and part of you filled with dread to have to look presentable once more. Eyes dashing to the door, only to be met with a familiar maroon hoodie. Now, of course, immensely damp with raindrops still visible and practically pouring from his form.

Jason. Jason was a reassuring sight.

You didn’t know what, exactly, brought you to that conclusion inside your mind, but it happened. It just clicked in your brain—that you associated Jason and his alluring persona with some semblance of comfort and familiarity. He’d become a more consistent part of your life now, and to be quite honest, you kind of _liked_ it.

No, not kind of—you really did like it.

His eyes almost glowed green when they met yours, one side of his lips tilting upwards at the sight of you. You felt a small warmth blooming in your chest in response, almost drowning out the perpetual state of anxiety and confusion your mind had been in. Almost. Immediately, you busied yourself with preparing some tea, hands flickering across the counter as he moved towards his usual spot.

This had become routine.

You’d missed it. Especially after the mess of last night.

Were you meant to regret healing the Red Hood? You’d heard the rumours. Seen him, with your own two eyes. But… despite all, he seemed like the good guy here. So him running around with a bunch of wounds that could kill him was off to you. Maybe that desire to help gnawed at you again, and you practically didn’t hesitate to help the red-helmeted vigilante.

You were meant to regret it. Hide it, as much as possible.

Even though the feeling in your gut was sickening, you didn’t. Not for one moment.

Finally, you pulled the teapot with you, adding a mug onto your little tray before moving from behind the counter. Flipping the sign to spell out ‘CLOSED’ on your way to the corner of the coffee shop. Why you did it was beyond you, but maybe. Maybe you just needed some alone time. With, uh… with Jason there.

Okay, so maybe you weren’t exactly smooth. Whatever.

You set the mug down with the pot, sliding into the booth where he sat. It was a semicircle kind of booth; there was still some semblance of space between the two of you. Would it be too direct to move closer? Or were you just ridiculously over analyzing things now, as if your high school days when you still looked at crushes with heart eyes had come back to haunt you?

For a few moments, your mind calculated what to say to break the silence. Eyes falling shut in slight exhaustion, one that had been weighing at you since the event with Red Hood last night. You knew why it was there and why you probably shouldn’t submit to it just yet—but just for a few seconds. Make it seem like you were thinking—

The Ghost. He was after you, ready to breathe down your neck because _he was real you saw him he was real_ —

Your shoulders jolted together as your eyes snapped open, sharp breath piercing your lungs. Immediately, Jason’s eyes were on you, lowering his mug and expression showing concern as he tilted his head. Pulling his hood down. Showing signs of vulnerability and trust.

Trying to coax you into trusting him.

Did he know that you’d started trusting him a lot sooner than you should have?

“Everything alright?” He asked, voice quiet but somehow soothing. You rattled yourself out of it, trying to avoid the flashes of amber clawing at you from the depths of your mind. Lips dry, you attempted to nod, but all that you have away was an odd, jerky motion with your head that probably wouldn’t achieve much when it came to reassurance.

After a few moments, the roles between you and Jason seemed to shift in position. Something changed in the usual dynamic, because with hesitance, his hand splayed out onto the table, eyes burning into you with the intensity of a wildfire. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Fuck, he’d taken you words right from you. You were meant to be helping _him_ , not vice versa. You couldn’t possibly burden him with your issues. You couldn’t do that to him, not when he was barely learning to open up for some mysterious reason you had yet to grasp from him—

Fine. Fine fine fine fine fine fine fine. You’d… you’d talk.

You already entrusted Jason with your witchcraft books.

No harm in adding some emotional baggage, right?

… Your sense of humour was seriously askew.

You felt your heart droop a little at his words—partially in endearment, partially in some semblance of anxiety. You were so damn sure you could trust him. But with how much? How much was _too much_ , too weird for him to handle or not report you to the police for?

“Okay, so I like to take photos,” you breathed out, shoulders slumping against the soft leather material of the seat and head lolling back a little. Out of your peripherals, you could see Jason tilt his head again, in a cute puppy sort of way. Moments like those were usually why you thought he was so damn charming—but definitely not a train of thought you needed to meld into your dialogue just yet. “Like, I have a polaroid camera and everything.”

You spoke of it—you having hobbies—as if it were your most cherished secret. Like you were a little schoolgirl, telling her friend about this brand-new crush she had and would insist was her meant-to-be love when it was just a fleeting desire. And you didn’t know why, but with the intensity of his gaze on you, you felt a warm sensation of heat creep up your neck.

“I—I mean, they’re not necessarily good or anything. I just, uh, go outside an’... take pictures and stuff.” You paused to glance over to check if Jason was still listening. His cerulean eyes glistened with curiosity and slight, uh… amusement? Yes, it was amusement evident in his expression as he attentively listened to your words. Part of you wanted to bottle that little look of confidence, place it into a bottle or a polaroid and hang onto a memory that lovable for forever.

But you’d barely scratched the surface with your anxieties.

“About a week or so ago, I went to Wayne Manor at night.” Oh, the lovely expression was gone. The glint disappeared like the blink of a star finally being smothered by dark clouds, and Jason’s features twisted into something akin to a troubled frown. Or maybe just plain surprise at your absolute stupidity. Whether it was _Wayne Manor_ , or the _at night_ part, you didn’t know. They sounded equally idiotic, in hindsight.

Your heart skipped a bit of a beat when you slouched back forward to lean your chin on one of your hands, the other one drumming onto the surface of the table before you. Mind running wild and posture awfully fidgety. It was a sense of dread from your childhood all over again. Fessing up to something, then hearing the yells and the verbal bashings. Not flinching once throughout, except now you felt afraid. Jumpy, maybe.

“You could’ve gotten hurt there,” Jason warned, rattling you out of your thoughts with the pressing tone of his voice. Your eyes snapped to his, brows lowering and you having to bite a tilt of your lips back. He didn’t… he didn’t sound angry. Or livid. Or how you would’ve expected someone to react at all. Instead, his brows were scrunched in a semblance of determination, and his shoulders had squared. He looked like a giant, cuddly teddy bear. With a stubborn expression. “Nothing happened though, right?”

“That’s the thing,” you bit your lip, eyes trailing away to the pouring rain outside. Your drumming tune finally coming to a halt, filling the store with palpable silence once more. Finally, you gathered to courage to return you gaze to him. “I just… I wanted to take some photos. It felt like a good photo op at the time—”

A low, careful chide of your name. “Were you hurt?”

“No, no, I—I was fine,” you hurriedly responded, not desiring to unsettle Jason any further. He always got a little… uncomfortable at certain prospects. Obviously, you had yet to figure out the full works of his mannerisms, but somehow his voice seemed to imply that he’d rather that you hadn’t been hurt at the manor. And besides—it was the easiest truth to disclose at the moment.

Another deep breath. Coffee grounds invaded your senses.

“I… the ruins were so pretty. So I… I just walked through them, picking out the best spot,” slowly, you continued your little retelling of that night at the burned-down manor. It must’ve been pretty once; aesthetically pleasing architecture and furniture you wouldn’t be able to afford even if you worked for every single day for the rest of your life. Swallowing, you felt your heart clench a little at the memory entering your mind. “That’s when it started coming after me.”

It might’ve been cliche in your mind, but you felt the air grow colder around you.

As if you were speaking of someone forbidden.

Someone dead.

Or, at least, someone who _should_ be dead.

Jason said nothing in response. His brows were drawn together tightly, eyes flickering over your features as if he were searching for a semblance of an expression that was lying to him. Or maybe something else entirely. Still, he didn’t utter a single word, and you took the silence as an invitation to continue.

“Some—” Someone? Something? You didn’t know what it was. It existed, and it freaked you the fuck out. That’s all you knew about it. “Something was there with me that night. It—it proved its presence with this one photo, but it dropped another photo.”

More silence met you. Should you tell him?

Fuck it.

You were telling him.

“It looked… old. It was a boy and a man—Bruce Wayne—standing in front of the exact mansion that I was standing in the ruins of,” you spluttered out, lower lip trembling and a slight rush of adrenaline tearing through you. The hand that had once propped up your chin had curled into a fist on the table now, your fingernails digging into your palm with the strength you were using trying to compose yourself. “And it was fine at first. Y’know, I just thought it was cute and didn’t mind it, but—fuck, I—I can’t—”

A hand covered your outstretched one.

You could feel the tremble. But then, it was just his hand, larger than yours, engulfing the hand on your table. It was… warm. Despite the amount of scars you’d seen on his hands, the callouses that were meant to have roughened up the texture of his hand, they were remarkably soft through all the patches of rough.

Most of all, they were _comfort_.

Your eyes—burning with somethin akin to panicked tears—met his, and his eyes were bright turquoise. There were ripples of green that enunciated every shade of blue, and you could’ve claimed that they shone like some sort of precious jewel. In reality, they shone with compassion, and concern, and a hesitant, maybe even unsure, desire.

His eyes should not have made your heart flutter as much as it did.

“Show me.” His voice was hoarse, and it burned within your memory already. Your voice practically disappeared when his eyes traced downwards. Even if it was for a split second and could’ve been a figment of what you _wanted_ to be real— “ _Please._ ”

Throat dry, you moved your other hand away, breaking your gaze from his to pull the polaroid out of your pocket.

It had travelled from your jacket pocket to the back pocket of your jeans. Maybe it returning in your car was a sign from some curse to keep it close. So you kept it close, fingers cold around the foreign cardboard material that you slid forward towards Jason. Maybe he knew. Maybe he kind of resembled the boy in the picture, in some innocent sort of way—

Silence.

His eyes were drawn to the photograph, flitting around the edges then the centre than somewhere completely else in an almost anxious pattern. You watched as his tongue darted out to lick his lips, and had to tear your gaze away from him before you looked like an absolute fool in front of your only companion in this lonely store.

He had yet to let go of your hand.

You didn’t mind.

“You can keep it, if you want,” you replied, your voice as quiet as possible to avoid disturbing this indescribable, electric silence. For a split second, his eyes flickered back to you, as if checking for the sincerity behind your words. “Maybe it’ll give you more luck than me.”

Slowly, cautiously, his other hand reached up to grasp the photograph off the table, thumb and index finger keeping it upright in his grip. There were a few calluses and scars on that hand, too. But for some reason, you couldn’t find it in you to judge him based off that. Instead finding a new want to trace over every single scar and validate the stories behind them.

You… you couldn’t ever have that, could you?

His hand parted from you as he pocketed the polaroid, with you catching sight of it for one, final time. Now, your hand felt slightly cold and drained, like you’d suddenly been left out in a snowstorm. But you braved it, clenching your jaw and letting a soft, amicable smile curve on your lips to reassure him. Or maybe reassure yourself to keep working after such a fragile moment.

“I think I need to open up shop again,” you declared, even though the usual enthusiasm you held with doing your job was no longer evident. You were tired, drained, lost and most of all confused. Emotions whirled inside of your chest, fluttering butterflies and crashing weights colliding and clashing against one another. Another encouraging smile managed to make its way to your features, directed right at Jason. “Take care, yeah?”

As you stood, you felt him grab your arm, causing you to turn around. You’d almost fully stood up, but now, you were leaning in towards him, breath halting in your lungs. _Was he doing this on purpose?_ You had to push the thought away.

His eyes roamed you for a moment.

“You too,” he responded, tone soft-spoken as you knew it. But this time, you heard the echoing statements behind it. _Thank you. Seriously._

This time, your eyes crinkled with your smile, beaming at him in a way that could be mistaken for customer service. But this time, you were sure it was more than that.

_Anytime, Jason._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waddup i'm eso and my update schedule is about as consistent as water
> 
> Seriously, though - a thousand apologies for this extremely delayed update! I've been sick and also very busy with real-world things, so my writing was kind of pushed back and my motivation dropped. Also, I played Detroit: Become Human and now I have a lot of emotions. The gist of this is that you shouldn't let me anywhere near video games because I can and will get attached to any and all of the characters present.
> 
> My trash ramblings aside, thank you so much for the positive regard this fic has gotten! Your comments were all very uplifting and nice, and you guys cannot believe how excited I am to see that we've already hit 146 kudos. Might not be a lot to everyone else, but it definitely is the most I've ever gotten so it's so lovely to see the positivity coming with writing this story. I always love hearing your feedback, so definitely a million thanks to you readers!!
> 
> Anyways, try to stay tuned for the next update! Thank you, everyone :)


	11. Evening Rooftops

It was still raining when you finally concluded the arduous and lonely work at the coffee shop—you loved the coffee shop with all your heart, but sometimes you just wished you weren’t the manager, could ask for a few days off and still afford rent with zero repercussions.

However, this was Gotham in a post-crisis of rebuilding a broken city—you swore half the collateral damage came from Batman and his bat-tank violently ramming into walls as he drove away from militaristic tanks, if the news were anything to go by. People were in a haze and work was in high demand as the poor metropolitan city was trying to rebuild itself and its citizens. Therefore, you just had to suck it up and keep making lattes for a pretentious Riddler thug or brave that one woman coming into your shop and claiming you used the wrong beans in her cappuccino.

Really, life was great.

Still, your mind kept trailing back to your exchange with Jason in the morning. How his eyes seemed to have softened from the harsh, stubborn glint he’d initially donned when entering your coffee shop on mere chance. How his defensive shield seemed to have lowered around you, and how warm he could be when you broke through the initial barriers of ice walls.

If only you knew that you were the spring to his winter.

If only you weren’t as stupid as to stand on the roof of your apartment building that night under the shelter sparing you from feeling cold rain attempt impaling any exposed skin of yours.

It was cold up there, yes. But it was also peaceful. The skies were dark and you were aware you should be asleep if you wanted to not be immensely exhausted tomorrow, but something drew you here tonight. Maybe it was the intricate sigil you’d passed on the way home—could have been mistaken as random graffiti by anyone else, but so glaringly obvious with the message it sent to you.

And now, you stood here patiently, hoping that you weren’t the craziest person in the city.

Though, that may be a stretch.

Despite all your close-cut encounters, you still had no idea how the hell to approach the Ghost or _where_ to approach him. Was it like a secret agency thing? You won’t find him, he’ll find you? What were you even meant to expect when you had no idea how to confront what felt like a literal demon?

Damn it, now you wished you’d paid more attention when John rambled on as he tried to dust the shelves—a harsh punishment for a mess like him—and wasn’t particularly successful seeing as he’d never been one for using cleaning utensils. The strict rule of _no spells_ didn’t ease things on him, or you in the present life where your younger self refused to listen to the idiot barely brushing the dust off shelves.

Vaguely, you registered what sounded like the flutter of a cape.

You were meant to be scared. You knew it. That’s exactly what the Ghost was about—to scare people, because he was nothing more than a myth and an absolute nightmare while also occupying people’s nightmares. On one hand, everyone wanted to believe he wasn’t real, that there was no way that it was a human hiding beneath the amber tint and shadows mingling. But at the same time, when you actually saw the eyes and he was _right there_ and your life was teetering on the brink of understanding something about this Gothamite legend—

You felt your jaw clench with your dangerous train of thought.

Sighing, you shut your eyes.

If he wanted to kill you so damn badly, he would’ve done it much sooner.

You’ve given him plenty of opportunities, haven’t you?

Never would you have ever thought—despite how ridiculous your life was—that you’d be forced to communicate with what everyone in a ten-mile radius had dubbed as a literal _ghost_. It was a bit of a nerve-wracking thought and made you feel like you were genuinely losing it—like an entire lifetime of hallucinatory curses had suddenly been wrought down upon you—but you had to do it. You needed answer; you needed closure.

You didn’t need closure on a lot of things, but this… this was something else.

Occultism was technically illegal in Gotham. It had quite a lot to do with the crazies of Gotham which had cults, rituals, worshipping ceremonies, sacrifices and whatnot. All giving the occultism culture a very, very bloody name. Therefore, it was a known fact in one of the GCPD’s long-abandoned rulebooks—like rulebooks have helped in the past fifty years of crime’s skyrocketing period—that occultism was illegal, whether it was for a villain or a civilian.

Safe to say, not a lot of circuses with fortune tellers stuck around anymore. Or circuses.

Seriously, once you have a clown-themed psychopath villain on the loose, circuses aren’t as fun for the general, traumatised public anymore.

Besides the unrelated topic, you doubted that occultism—speaking to the dead or _whatever_ the Ghost might be—was going to help you understand the amber-eyed creature haunting what lack of sleep you’d been having for a while now, whether or not the entity had somehow managed to capture pictures of a side that not many people had seen and survived to remember.

Your joints cracked a little as you sat down on the cold concrete rooftop, the wind whipping past your ears and a shiver passing through you with the cool weather. The shelter somehow helped ward off the drops of rain, though a few droplets still managed to nick your face, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Just a tad… cold.

“Look,” you breathed into the atmosphere. In the distance, you could see the lights in the heart of Gotham shine brightly, some cast into the sky to highlight clouds of both precipitation and pollution. You still could not believe you were doing this. “I know that we’ve only met, like, twice—well, I can’t even say _met_ because I don’t even know whether you’re real or not—”

You inhaled deeply, cutting off your rambling as frustration bored into the base of your skull. Was there a way to not sound completely pathetic doing this?

_Let’s try again._

“Anyways. I—uh, I kinda wanted to talk with you. Maybe. If you want.” You paused again, glancing around. Nothing was audible, other than the rain beginning to pick up in heaviness and the lights looking a tiny bit blurrier from where you sat. Instinctively, your arms curled around your form in an attempt to warm up. Hesitantly, you added, “I—I won’t tell anyone you’re real if you… if you do want to talk.”

More silence.

God damn it. Was the Ghost _trying_ to make you look stupid? Probably a building away, hiding his laughter in his stupid cape or whatever the hell he wore. Maybe he was finding humour in all this.

One more try. You’d give it one more try, and then you’d convince yourself you were absolutely insane and go back inside. Maybe give Z a visit so she can make sure you hadn’t been possessed by an evil entity or something making you act this way.

“I gave your photograph away. Maybe you know who he is? I sure as hell don’t know enough.”

You were a horrible human being, giving away Jason like that. Poor guy was just trying to live his life and now some urban legend would swoop in or something? God, you felt stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Still, you were met with more, deafening silence outside of the heavy rain.

Were you meant to feel disappointed? You didn’t know. Maybe on one hand, you were absolutely terrified with facing the reality of the Ghost potentially being a human being when he was so damn terrifying. But maybe that’s what you were secretly hoping for at the same time—to find rationality and reason when faced with something so maddeningly horrifying, to somehow turn on the light switch and discover the demon you thought was across your bed was really just your teddy bear with a scarf draped over it.

Maybe you were just a desperate child hoping to face their fear.

But there was nothing to help acknowledge the fact that there was any way to face this type of irrational fear. Just… nothing.

Sighing, you tilted your head back, teeth worrying your lower lip. Your palms pressed into the icy concrete below you to help raise you off the ground, and your legs balanced your body into a standing position. Your mind buzzed with the unknown of not knowing what to do next—how to even figure out what to do next—yet your heart thumped an awkward beat as if someone was there. As if you were so desperate for someone to be there that your mind was making things up for you now.

You turned to the door, fingers brushing the handle of the rooftop door.

Maybe this was just another, twisted way to get closure—

“Jason deserved that photograph,” your shoulders jolted together with heavy surprise when you heard it. _No, there was no way you were imagining that._ That was not just the rain pattering an unusual rhythm, or the wind howling in a manner resembling words. Those were actual words, audible and uttered and _there and oh my God—_

You spun around once more, lips parted as you gasped for air. But all that met you was the night sky, rain and the view of the city from a little, insignificant rooftop. That was all that was left for you right now, but you were so certain you weren’t hallucinating these words—

The voice had been… you wanted to say unhinged, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was rough, and tired, and so unlike how you imagined the Ghost might truly sound. He—was the Ghost really definable as a _he?_ Were you really making that risk?—sounded so human for a second. That is, if it even was him.

It seemed as if him speaking left you with more questions than answers.

Finally, you heard one more statement. One you were most definitely certain you could have never, in a million years, dream up.

“Take care of each other.”

That was.

Did he just—?

You released a breath you almost didn’t realise you’d started holding at some point, ears peeled and desperate to hear him say something, _anything_ else. But minutes passed on that rooftop, the heavy rain gathered into dimly lit-up puddles, and you felt the fatigue sway in your line of sight. And that was all he left you with.

_Take care of each other._

That was _unreal._

Just when you thought you’d finally begun figuring Jason out somehow—through the evident inner turmoil, through the soft looks and touches and through that sense of danger clinging onto his form screaming _get away from me_ —you were left with a new riddle. Because _somehow_ , the Jason Todd that you’d grown comfortable with seemed either well-known enough to have a name in an urban legend’s mind. Or there was a less comfortable option.

Jason knew the Ghost himself.

Like, physically well enough for the Ghost to make a judgement on him, on that _photograph—_

There was a lot for you to process with a mere two statements from this nightmarish crime-fighter. Your body now shaking from more than just the cold as you rushed into the vague warmth of your apartment building, and your mind attempting to somehow make a picture out of the puzzle pieces that had been pegged at you in a chaotic manner over the past few weeks.

Clearly, everything leading up to your encounter with the Manor had been a mistake.

Or, in another light, potentially one of the best decisions of your life.

You were still debating on that one.

But it had clearly managed to integrate you with something you could’ve never predicted happen, and a whole line of emotional baggage to connect and for things to slowly begin making sense.

Except not really, because you were still stuck on how the fuck someone like Jason knew someone like the Ghost.

Then again…

If you… kind of. Looked at it with a different set of eyes, maybe you saw a few strings connecting them. Some mannerisms, some type of aura that made your brain hurt with how the hell you couldn’t have seen it before.

You felt like you were either in a very bad episode of the Prank Patrol.

Or, to simply put it, in a nightmare.

And what were you meant to do now? Confront Jason about his affiliation with an urban myth? Buy a—well, an illegal one at that—Ouija board and have a serious chat with the Ghost? Leave Gotham as soon as you could and get extensive psychological therapy for just a _week_ of this stuff?

As you shut the door to your apartment behind you, you let out a humourless laugh; dry in the air, not really meant for anyone but for you to vent the static noise inside your head out in a comprehensible manner. You slid down the back of the door, the wood much warmer than the rooftop of the building, and let yourself slump down onto the ground with little to no regard as to how hopeless you might’ve looked from an onlooker’s perspective.

There was an entire string of people connected to one another dancing around you; tangling you in their life, their interactions, people you’d never thought you needed until now. You had more than enough issues with your life as it went—as selfish as that may sound, there were nonexistent bodies that happen to agree—and now all of this was meant to be supported by your being as well.

Somehow, all of this showed you just how brittle you were becoming.

Everyone has a breaking point, right?

And then there was Jason.

Every single time, it managed to always come back to him, as if he was standing in the middle of the conundrum you were facing and concealing the few details you needed to make sense of any of it all.

Why was it your business?

You shut your eyes, burying your head in your hands and toes curling.

It really, really wasn’t.

Maybe that’s what made it so harmful to you.

What _were_ you trying to achieve, anyway? You, involving yourself in the lives of others like you had any business. Claiming your ears were open for listening, when you had yet to break a lot of your own silence. Why were you so desperate to help Jason, or anyone? Or even figure this whole thing out?

_I just wanted to help._

Oh. Right.

It was the guilt.

Your eyes squeezed together until you saw phantom colours behind your lids.

_You just wanted to help—_

Like a rubber band, your mind snapped away from that place before you could further dig yourself a grave that was difficult to crawl out of. Instead, it immediately reverted back to him.

Jason. Jason, Jason, Jason. What had happened to him? There were so many questions you could ask and so many questions your mind was posing, but you somehow settled on this. What happened. What had really occurred for Jason to be the way he was and what might’ve led him to you, of all people, and what he had gone through before he was who he was now.

Your queries screamed existential crisis.

Yet somehow, you still managed to be hilariously intrigued by the man.

Though, intrigued may no longer be the suitable word, if you were going to be fully honest with yourself.

More like _attracted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all: hey we're really enjoying the fluff  
> me *bc i'm the Worst™*: did you say aNGST
> 
> .. seriously, though. Guys, I'm so SORRY this update has taken approximately 10 years too many; I feel like the absolute worst author in existence. I said I'd update, like, 3 weeks ago!! Admittedly, I've had a lot of things come up (that i'm not disclosing lmao), but I still feel bad for delaying this update. Not to mention that I wrote and rewrote this out of frustration so many times and I'm STILL not happy with how it feels like a filler.  
> Nonetheless, thank you so much for everyone commenting and supporting this story!! We've hit over 200 kudos, which is an incredible feat in my opinion. I'm so proud of this story no matter how often I roast it, and am happy everyone's enjoying it. I'd love to hear your opinion on this chapter and what you guys think will happen next, because it's always interesting to see you guys theorise!! anyways, I'll chill on the long-ass A/N now and say a final thank you!! Hopefully, I'll be back soon :)


	12. Dusk Warnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this chapter contains **violence and blood/gore**. Please bear in mind that if that makes you uncomfortable that I suggest discretion.
> 
> other than that, Happy Halloween!! i made this chapter specifically scary (lol) to celebrate (or not). heck, i kind of spooked myself for a little there. regardless, it's an update! has a bit less of jason in it this time, but some plot progression. so there's that!! other than that, there's not much to mention, other than a huge thank you to the lovely comments and kudos last chapter. definitely appreciated!!  
> either way, let me know you liked it and if this chapter gave off some nice halloween vibes! remember, feedback is always hugely appreciated. so thank you and hopefully there'll be another update soon! :)

Despite a growing desire for Jason stowed away in the back of your mind, making your heart thrum in what didn’t seem like trepidation for once, you had not seen a single trace of him for a while now.

He was his own person. You had to remember that. It wasn’t his obligation to come to the coffee shop every single day and entertain you or make you feel better about your life while you were working—he owed you nothing in that sense. So you pretend everything is fine, and like it wasn’t odd Tim Drake had a continuous stream of appearing in the store and constantly glancing to that back table. Much like you did, but with a bit more discretion from your viewpoint. The calculation behind the CEO’s eyes was evident, though.

Did he know Jason? Had Jason not told you something about this?

Regardless, you never asked. Even if you did, you doubted he’d answer truthfully; a habit most, if not all, Gothamites had. Most people’s secrets had secrets here, and unfortunately, you were not an exception, despite your hypocritical thoughts.

Though, something was askew today.

Maybe it was just one of those days, you supposed. Where everything would feel on edge, like the city was waiting with bated breaths for another villain to wreak havoc. But it seemed that those days had lowered significantly—no more Joker to think up a scheme every day, no more Batman to pursue a criminal in the street despite his initial motivation to stay hidden in the dark. There were crimelords that still existed and scraped the bottom of the barrel with few people falling for their tricks, but it wasn’t enough to truly terrify the city like that one night on Halloween.

Nonetheless, the boxes in your hands felt a little heavier today when you hoisted them over to your little car. Maybe it was the breeze so strong it almost made you topple on the way, or the slight flash of… _something_ in your peripheral that made you halt even for the slightest split second.

This was Gotham. What did you expect? Nursery rhymes and laughter?

Actually, somehow that was even worse.

The children had gathered eventually when you’d parked, some crawling out of their hiding spots to greet you with kind, complementary smiles and gleams in their eyes that told a thousand stories of pain and hope at once. You forced your lips into a crooked grin in response, opening the boxes to distribute the food you’d brought in today. Since the amount of customers had increased recently, rendering you completely busy, you’d had more money to afford this type of treat for the kids here.

You knew that helping them with merely food wouldn’t change anything. Not their status, not their homes, not even the blood on your hands.

But it was a start at numbing your conscience.

This may also be why part of you felt so inexplicably _guilty_ for trying to help Jason out of whatever turmoil-ridden past he may have lived through. You felt like your subconscious was merely drawn towards him because it felt like he could be your token of slight goodness against the painted canvas of bad deeds you had done. Every time you lingered too close, your mind was racing with _what ifs_ while also contemplating the sincerity of your actions.

You wanted it to be real. You really, really did.

Maybe you just had to hold on a little bit longer.

As you handed out pastries and a variety of foods, receiving mild and quiet thanks from children who eventually retreated to their own places—it was like a silent pact between the two parties—your eye caught a few children off at the side. Maybe three or four; through the crowds of kids it was difficult to gauge whether it was just a shadow or a person. It didn’t help that fog was settling into the street and thus made everything just a tad less visible.

They just sat there. Not standing to get food that they might’ve not had for days, just… sitting. Staring. Not a single word exchanged from that particular group of children.

You felt a slight cold shiver creep up your legs unwittingly.

When the rest of the kids had retreated, some conversing quietly as if not to disturb the solitude of this moment, you finally gathered the courage to stand with the remaining pastries to shuffle over to the kids off at the side. The closer you got, the stranger this day seemed to feel, and it felt like every single hair on your body was standing on edge like something was genuinely wrong—

“You guys alright?” You piped up quietly, kneeling down in front of one of the kids. Dull green eyes didn’t properly focus on yours, glossed over with a blank expression. Kid couldn’t be older than eight or nine, unless a scraggly frame of malnutrition had finally caught up to him. Brows furrowing, you tilted your head to the side, confusion lingering in the forefront of your senses now.

“Don’t bother with ‘em,” a girl piped up—looked about eleven, maybe younger. Wavy hair tied back into a braid that had strands poking out and escaping the hairdo, and hard eyes trained on you almost apprehensively. “They haven’t talked since they came back with word-vomit. We’ve tried everything, but none’o them budge.”

“Came back from where?” You asked, then immediately pressed, “What did they say?”

“Few streets down that way,” the girl pointed down the alleyway, away from cars and threading further into neighbourhoods alongside abandoned housing. Your eyes shot up momentarily to observe the street; fog gathering at the tips and the setting of a practically-nonexistent sun darkening the street. What an odd place for children to come back from. “Somethin’ about seeing the supernatural. Like the _Ghost_ , ‘cept this time it wasn’t even resembling a human.”

A cold sweat dripped down your back, body now completely tense.

Fight-or-flight mode. A popular term used to describe adrenaline, when the adrenal gland produces epinephrine that transmitted into the brain as a primal response to danger or something that was instinctively feared. It seemed that you were cursed with that response invading your body, as your mind rapidly contemplated what to do next and your heart beat faster than it had to without any form of movement coming from you. Your jaw felt heavy and your stomach clenched.

The Ghost wasn’t real. Not. Not like they described him.

But something else lurking in Gotham seemed less than ideal.

“They said that even after five hours of rain, there was still blood.”

Your body snapped into immediate action. Setting the box down in front of the catatonic children in a jerky movement that clicked in your elbows, before you stood and began heading back in the general direction of your car. You waved goodbyes you didn’t really register in your memory, ears filled with white noise that would have muted anyone attempting to stop you. You were reeling into a full panic without letting out a single noise, footsteps not even audible on the damp asphalt as you stormed down a path that was no longer heading to your car.

You should be dead.

And at this rate, you might as well embrace your killer with open arms.

One slightly-easing thought you kept in your mind—there was an oval-shaped object in your pocket with fingerprints that were not yours on it. It had a seal that could be clicked off, and despite the curiosity that had initially gnawed at you, you were now aware that this was something along the lines of a grenade.

Maybe if there was one final opening, you could use it to weigh the odds with something you didn’t even know the operations of. Which was potentially stupid, but you couldn’t choose your fortunes in life.

Eventually, your hearing returned to you and your adrenaline lowered. But you were still on edge, throat thick with an inability to let a single noise other than your soft breathing escape you. Fog had gathered more now, and the sun was setting rapidly. Skies darkening behind you in deep greys and vague hues of blue that weren’t really discernible through what looked to be the beginning of neon lights being flicked on for the oncoming night of civilians.

You were alone in this corner of the city, though. Lights distant, noise limited, traffic a thing far behind you. If you really wanted to, it seemed like finding a place of quietude in Gotham was not entirely impossible.

Had it been any other day, you may have relished that.

Now, it was the last place you wanted to be.

Bludhaven-Gothamite instincts immediately kicked in. Weighing the possibility that someone would harm you or kill you here, and the odds that it would even be heard. It was the perfect spot for slaughter, blocks away from anyone to overhear any semblance of a murder. That thought alone was enough to tighten your shoulders and your vision to sharpen for any movement around you, fingers curling into fists and energy pumping through your bloodstream as your heart rate increased.

They said that there was blood here. A lot of it, it seemed.

Would you find it?

Worse, would you find the source?

It was growing darker. Enough for the shadows of buildings to stretch out and the fog to obscure the far ends of alleyways. You were completely on edge now, teetering dangerously on a brink of insanity you could not afford. Though there was a slight silver lining present, with the thought that the Ghost wouldn’t possibly kill—it couldn’t be in his nature.

… Could it?

You took another turn based off chance, breathing coming in short spurts that merely kept you alive now. Hairs standing on end and a cool sweat dripping down your temples as you assessed every nook and cranny of the dead East End with no end. Most, if not all, inhabitants had left this place behind, but the mayor had promised some sort of renovation put into this place. Until then, squatters and maybe criminals would reside here.

And what could most definitely mess with your head.

Something you had acknowledged a long time ago was that you were never really afraid of being alone. In fact, you didn’t even _mind_ being alone; it was peaceful, and quiet, and there was no stress pressing down on your shoulders in a pretense that the world could ever be normal around you. Loneliness had never scared or bothered you particularly, not even in the darkest room. So while a common myth was that people—including you—were afraid of being alone in the dark, that wasn’t really it.

It was more that you were afraid of someone there you couldn’t see.

Clenching your jaw, you caught a faint, rusty scent. Maybe a rusted copper lock left out in the rain, abandoned long before Halloween. Or maybe afterwards. And you wanted to believe that it was just that—rusted metal. Nothing else to worry about.

But you somehow recognised it as the distinct smell of blood.

Your heart skipped a beat in your chest as another shiver crept down your spine, the protection of a jacket slung over your form not even vaguely helping you stay warm now. Tunnel vision crept at the corners of your eyes once more, and your senses acute to every single little noise in your proximity. A distant car horn beeping. The scamper of a rat running through an alleyway. The little _drip-drip-drip_ that rhythmically resounded through the next alleyway and you were trying to convince yourself was merely rainwater.

_But was it?_

You were no bloodhound; you couldn’t follow the scent of blood to find the source of it. In fact, by now you were unsure whether you even _wanted_ to—whether you’d rather spare yourself the sight for another day, until one day maybe the news would give and off-handed comment about it and it would be dismissed as insignificant in this madhouse of a city. You could feel your legs tremble as you continued walking, a breath inhaled and exhaled with every footstep you managed to take.

You felt sick to your bones.

Eventually, the alleyways you silently walked through blurred into one, a foggy and darkening maze. Hell, maybe you wouldn’t even find your way back alive, let alone to your home. Not that you were so certain that it would be an anomaly. Instead, your lower lip quivered as you turned the next alleyway, before freezing completely.

You heard… breathing. Not yours.

More like pants.

They weren’t impossible to hear; away from most noise, your breathing stilled in your throat, they sounded raspy, almost exhausted. Your body went rigid as you hesitantly followed the weak sounds, hands trembling at your sides and mind scattered into a fray. _Breathe, just breathe, just breathe and it will be fine—_

You dared to peek around the next corner.

That’s where the blood began.

The smell had intensified acutely; practically dyed into the asphalt ground and the washed-out copper liquid still visible through a thin layer of meshy fog. Bile rose to your throat and a shiver rattled your shoulders. _More than five hours. All that time, and the blood’s still here._

Your breathing was coming in very sharp gasps by now.

Daring your eyes to travel up the walls—graffiti mingled with more blood dripping down like water might travel down a glass pane—and beyond, you spotted the next incriminating evidence. The first body. Male, slumped and coated in blood that stained whatever colour the coat might’ve been a dark scarlet. Head faced away from you, almost curled up in a fetal position.

There was another body.

You felt like crying.

_What happened here?_

Your eyes shot up to the end of the alleyway—nothing. Heart threatening to burst out of your ribcage, you silently dared to step out and traverse down the alley, cold shivers consuming your arms and the back of your neck. For a moment, you were sure there was a dark figure, just _waiting_ for you to drop your guard so it could kill you—

You spun around rapidly.

There was nothing.

You let out a short, harsh breath through your nostrils, a sinking feeling burrowing itself into your chest. You were so sure you saw something, just in your peripherals. Waiting. Hunting. Yet your vision seemed to be playing tricks on you—now, of all times—and nobody was there. No _thing_ was there.

_You could not possibly be alone._

Slowly, you turned away and proceeded further, following the stains of blood on the ground and wall. It was messy, and most likely recent. Almost looked like an animal had torn through their bodies, though leaving so many remains seemed unlikely. So what in the everloving hell had you missed here?

Another corner to round. Mind sharp and eyes shooting from side to side, you ventured further.

That was… another body. A younger boy, maybe very young adult.

You had to silently resist the urge to throw up.

Blinking rapidly, you averted your eyes from his glazed ones, instead clenching your jaw further and moving on. Body trembling, energy bursting inside of you as your heartbeat pulsated inside your ears. Anxiety had sunk its ugly claws into you, and was clearly hellbent on not letting go.

But—through the fog—at the end—

There looked to be another body.

At least, so you thought. The figure looked to be curled up in a crouched ball on the ground, leather coat and long, dark hair concealing any semblance of a face. But for some reason, familiarity struck you once more and you felt your heart plummeting, mind searching for an answer. The worst part may have been that you were certain that the figure wasn’t even _dead—_

The figure’s head turned towards you.

Dark eyes collided with yours.

The problem was with what seemed to be this _man_ was that his eyes were completely black, scleras included. Dark lines ran down his face alongside splatters of dark, dried blood, and his expression was twisted into downright despair.

To you, the picture looked downright gruesome.

Enough to send you into cold shivers.

His arms uncurled, revealing bandages wrapped around as sleeves and blood dripping through said bandages. There was a silver dagger in his left hand as he stood slowly, eyes still dripping with the black liquid. You instinctively took a few sharp strides backwards, body now going into survival mode.

_Kill. Kill. Kill._

“I _need_ it,” the harsh, shaky whisper echoed through the alleyway, resounding right in your ears through the blood rushing. Red light danced across his fingertips alongside the ink now running down his hands and immediately, you made the connection. Why it was so familiar, how you recognised it and _oh god he’s gonna kill me—_ “There’s no other way.”

The red magic increased tenfold, towering almost above the buildings and rushing towards you. Your heart jumped in your throat as a short scream escaped you, hands flying out to protect yourself—

_Slash._

The red fell from the skies to the ground, and your shaking arms drew away from your face. Fingers trembling. Eyes zeroing on the nameless man before you, who now had his lips parted and whose red magic was now retreating back into his hands. The inky eyes retreated to show a vague shade of brown, eyes wide in what almost seemed like horror.

That’s when the blood started pouring from his throat.

A long slice from one side of his throat to another had been made in what seemed like the mere blink of an eye, and it poured his lifesource from him. Your heart sank to your feet, and you felt like you were falling in slow motion. First, he dropped to his knees. Hands shakily attempting to reach his throat, as if the shock didn’t let it sink in.

He dropped to the ground dead before his hands moved any further.

The blood from his body began seeping into the ground.

By the time you regained your voice, you’d already noticed how the skies had darkened considerably. How you’d have a difficult time finding your way back to your car, and how screwed you were if whatever the _hell_ was out there that had killed the man got to you. And how there was no way to explain what had just happened, and how you may or may not have to call some outside… _acquaintances_ in for any semblance of hope.

Regardless, the feeling of what happened finally sunk in when a final burst of red jabbed into the walls of the alleyway.

You let out a scream.

And you were aware that there was something watching you.


	13. Afternoon Evacuations

Gotham was… well. There weren’t a lot of decent words in Jason’s vocabulary to describe Gotham.

Still, it was home. Always, for him. The gravity was, uh. Too strong to escape, especially for someone with baggage as heavy as him. He could only dream of flying away from this place, getting over the trauma that weighed him down right here. Until then, he supposed he’d have to be comfortable with the idea of staying. Even if some things have kind of started making it worthwhile.

Though, some things were easy to set ideas to move to Canada instead right into his brain.

Including the newest incident. Some guy—December Bluestone? Redstone?—found dead in an alleyway in the abandoned apartment lots over near East End. Throat slitted, looking rather flitting and no murder weapon. Not even a single sign of a struggle, other than December—wait, maybe it was Greenstone—having his hands covered in dried blood and near his throat. Pathetic attempt to staunch a bloodflow that had no hope left.

Hood had been lucky to be in the area to swing by and check the corpse out. That is, until the sirens sounded a bit too close for his liking and he had to get outta there unless he wanted the cops to pin this on him for no reason.

But an I.D. and some intel snatched off some willing—and maybe some unwilling—guys around the blocks told him as much as he needed to know. Three bodies other than that, seemed to be killed by Graystone—shit, yeah, it was _Graystone_ —based on the blood evidence on the daggers in his pockets. Definitely not his, which made Jason wonder whether the cops would be foolish enough to brush this off as a showy suicide.

No. This guy was murdered, very unwillingly so.

Still. Guy matched the description that you’d given him. Who attacked you, as well as a few other people in the vicinity of Gotham. Unfortunate corpses beforehand, before you’d given him a nice little lead. So at least there was one less psychopath on the streets using blood magic or what-the-shit. Gave him a few less headaches, which doubled right down on him with the realisation that there were still plenty more in Gotham.

Celebrate the little victories?

He did so by dropping by his favourite coffeeshop nowadays. Whether it was his favourite because of the good tea, comforting scent of roast beans or warmth within, he couldn’t exactly decide. But his honest opinion would probably sneakily include that you made it an easy favourite for him. Not that he, uh. Not that he’d ever tell you that, because there was no way you saw him like that and he was probably overthinking all of it.

He’d slinked into the back booth recently, the little girl you’d taken in as an employee—Kyung Soon—having delivered his tea this time. He gave an appreciative nod, reclining into the comfort of the seats. Knowing that you were keeping the young girl off the streets, and resorting to worse activities to get by. He kind of appreciated that about you—how you managed to help everyone along the way, even though it wasn’t your obligation.

You, on the other hand… well. He was kind of staring, he’ll admit that pathetically so. Eyes flitting over to you smiling cordially as you served unemployed henchmen and thugs coffee like it was any other customer. On first sight, you’d just look like a lovely coffeeshop owner, a grin lighting up your features and movement smooth. But because Jason was staring, as he was trying to get himself to stop doing with no avail, he noticed the dark circles smudged under your eyes. The slight tick you had with your fingertips every once in a while, eyes flitting around the shop and occasionally even tracing back his way.

Something was unsettling you. Or had already succeeded in doing so. And it was not the thugs for once.

Had you seen the Ghost again? Graystone?

Impossible, Graystone was dead. There was no way you had that sort of impeccable timing.

“... yeah, Dent’s tense,” one of the Two-Face goons spoke to you as you set down a plate of blueberry muffins, leaning back onto the wooden structure of the booths to listen to their chattering. Jason’s lips quirked a little. Smart. “Says he doesn’t know whether Oz will strike first or if he should go while he can.”

Okay, maybe you really had a good point with listening to them.

Jason’s ears tuned right into the conversation, head shifting the slightest but otherwise not giving away that he was listening in. Taking a sip of his tea, letting you speak to the thugs and unwittingly help him out greatly.

“Are you guys gonna strike here?” Okay, neat question. Probably a bit more useful to you, considering this was a business that needed to avoid damage and all—god. He was such a creep. Listening in, making assumptions right away. He should be gross.

“Hell nah, this place’s neutral ground,” another thug piped up, taking a swig from his coffee. Just a bunch of them; probably not dangerous enough to cause too much ruckus if something went south immediately. It seemed you had the situation under control, though. “Anyone who touches the Caffeine Hub from either side is down, no questions. We like this place and Boss does, too.”

Neutral ground. Not too shabby, for you and your coffeeshop. If there was actually a gang war on the rise… at least you’d be safe.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” you smiled at the thugs, pushing yourself off the booth to head back to the counter. Your shoulders squared, but evident relief seeping through the outer shell of professionalism you were so good at putting up. Jason let a smirk cross his features, turning his head away entirely and sipping his tea in peace and silence.

Soon enough, the thugs left. They paid what was due, some even tipping extra. See? Who said Gotham’s criminals had no manners! Some of them can be lovely if they’re off their shifts! It’s their bosses you have to watch out for. Other than that, it was kind of cool to see thugs interact peacefully and not hold you at gunpoint for a large macchiato or something as ridiculous as that. You had evidently been smart about every detail in this shop, which was definitely good news for you.

But soon enough, you found your spot sitting with him again. And all he could do was talk like he was fine and an odd sensation of childish, teenage _butterflies_ weren’t roaming through his gut as he spoke to you. How you made him feel that way beyond him—witchcraft, probably—but admittedly, it was better than the gruelling angst he usually locked himself up in. A welcome distraction, maybe.

“Gang war’s been brewing,” you began as a conversation topic, pads of your fingertips dragging over the wood of the table and eyes flickering towards Jason, before away to the doors again. Most of the crowd had dispersed, the morning rush dissipating and leaving the usual two in their scene. Jason felt most comfortable like this—something about you made a person feel like they were safe around you while left with a million questions. “Two-Face and Penguin are gonna get hit the worst and seem to be main contributors.”

“What about the Riddler?” Always good to keep in the loop. Jason’s been busy and immensely distracted with juggling the city back into shape. No matter how much he despised some of the people in it. You could be his eyes and ears, especially considering that no one would bother doing you any harm. Which was also something he might have to look into, he noted absentmindedly.

“Battling it out with his attorney in jail,” you responded, setting your elbows onto the surface of the table. “Don’t know much, but his guys are working off what money’s left before ditching the act altogether. Nygma wasn’t the sharpest when it came to relying on robots.”

“So there’s only two sides to this,” Jason concluded quietly, taking another sip of his beverage and eyeing you cautiously. Or maybe curiously. You sniffed quietly, glancing towards where Kyung Soon worked away at the coffee machine and was presumably waiting for Nico to bring in a next batch. With the way your lips twitched downwards, he seemed to be incorrect.

“I dunno,” you sighed, drumming your fingers on the table. Lips pressed together, anxiety clearly strung over you heavily. Jason had to ask you about that, make you talk. Him? Yeah, he was the biggest hypocrite ever for even bringing that idea up. But you had a coffee shop to run and a normal life to live—he just kicked ass and lost sleep every once in a while. You needed to talk about your baggage more than he did. “Hopefully? I mean, shop’s neutral ground but, uh… ‘m scared of what might happen _outside_ of it. Where I can’t defend Kyung Soon, or deal with that other stuff…”

“Tell ya what,” Jason didn’t exactly _know_ what he was doing, but it’s not like you had to know that. That’s something Golden Boy taught him—act like you know everything, and no one will suspect otherwise. “Here. You need help, you call this number, no questions asked. Got it?”

Your eyes glanced downwards to the small piece of paper extended towards you, neatly scrawled numbers on it. Silence questioning whether you should take it—which he could give you props for, seeing as he didn’t necessarily act _not-suspicious_ with his demeanour. But in the end, you took the number, setting your phone out onto the table and tapping the number into your system. Old-school phone—were you not that much into the newest pieces of technology?

“Thanks,” you sighed, before turning the piece of paper around and grabbing a pen from your pocket. Scrawling something in neat, black ink before sliding the paper right back. Like children passing notes. “Guess the favour goes both ways.”

Right. Your number. That was your number.

Jason pocketed the paper wordlessly, fingertips twitching subtly.

“You really think I’d need your number?” He asked, merely out of curiosity. Mind rattling, some sort of dizzy delirium running through his mind and the paper in his pocket feeling slightly warm. He didn’t intend it in a patronising sort of manner; he merely wondered what, exactly, he’d ask you for. More knowledge on the strange magic books you had in your apartment? Was this some sort of weird extension of being friends with people?

“Hey, you never know if I need to play hero,” you jested, a slight smile playing on your lips. Eyes twinkling with knowledge that seemed to make any words or questions stuck in his throat. He didn’t know what it was about you—you were vaguely admirable. He wasn’t going to lie; he was dangerously attracted to you. But something about you made him feel like he was getting into something very sinister.

Attachment issues? Maybe.

“Alright, I gotta go,” you stood from the table once more, palms pressed against the wooden surface of the table. “Can’t keep customers waiting forever.” Jason managed some sort of weak half-smile as you left, cheeks dusted in a slight pink before turning away and towards the counter of customers that had just entered. He leaned back into his seat, slouched and brows lowered in deep thought.

Something was very wrong.

He left a hefty tip, then stood and half-stormed out of the cafe. Anxiety beginning to creep up the back of his neck again, hitting nerves that still ached from the most torturous year of his life. He winced quietly, glancing down both sides of the streets before heading away and back to what he knew would be his shoddy apartment waiting for him.

It wasn’t making any sense.

* * *

One thing about gang wars—despite the claim that it’s all sides and choices, it’s nothin’ but pure-bred chaos and mayhem. Usually starting subtly, like the offing of a higher-up as a warning to submit while one could. But with contenders like these, hungry for power and conflict to profit off, there was no telling what would happen. B wasn’t here to ensure that there would be order, and even with Cash’s efforts there wouldn’t be much they could do or predict. Gordon tried his best to crack down on this sort of stuff, but there weren’t a lot of people that could handle this sort of stuff. People like—

People he longed to never utter the names of again.

That same afternoon was when it all went downhill—one glance out the window had sent a frenzy of retaliation plans into his mind, fingers curling into fists as his eyes peeked through the slitted blinds. Eyes narrowed, gauging the amount of people.

A whole street. People stepping out of cars. Some approaching quietly, shooting furtive glances down opposing ends. Guns badly-hidden.

Why did he just have to count on that this gang-war would end up right at his doorstep?

His gear had been damaged after last night’s patrol. Leather jacket torn; insignia needed fixing. Some of his gear needed reloading, which meant another quiet raid or leaning into what money he had left and hidden. Jason shoved one handgun into a duffel bag; the other one tucked into his pants. Would he be forced to interfere? Was someone sane enough to call the cops?

The air was tight with tension. Jason held his breath.

The first gunshot rang.

And with that, hell was unleashed.

It was a hail of gunfire outside, each at different spacings of time and volume. Jason stormed to the window; screams had already begun. Some down, some smart and taking cover. He hoped car insurance was still a thing for people. Each side as hellbent on murdering one another as the last. One car shot in the engine—a fireball consumed the newborn battlefield, and people screamed and raced from the scene.

Well, Gotham had always raised cowards.

More reinforcements. _Lovely_. Come on—did people have nothing better to do? Couldn’t people take example from Nigma’s crew and just quit it?... Right, these two bozos have money. Jason wished he could say that he understood, but they were still lawless scum so there was no point in reasoning himself into relating to a bunch of money-hungry thugs who were all scum.

Not that. Uh. Not that he was any better. But y’know.

And approximately three minutes into this madness—sirens wailing in the distance, their attention piqued—Jason saw it. The one idiot he would’ve chased down on his own accord if it were legal, and string him up by his guts. The one idiot on Two-Face’s—Penguin’s? Which side was which, anyways?—who yanked a small, fruit-sized object out of his pocket, and made Jason’s heart leap into his throat. Apprehension for himself? Others? Was he meant to care?

The man pulled the safety pin, tossing it to the ground amongst the gunfire. And then, he reached back, ready to throw the sucker across the lines. And then there was a gunshot and the man’s path of throwing hurtled off course, the man dropping as the grenade soared—

 _Right towards him, dear god_ —

He lunged from the window, pulse spiking—

A loud rumble tore through the building, his ceiling pouring fragments of dust with the movement.

 _Son of a bitch_.

More screams, sirens louder. Jason took jagged breaths, stumbling to his feet and tying his boots up, gun still with him. His mind racing, heart beating as if it were trying to escape his ribcage. The gunfire had reduced to an almost standstill, the shock seeming to blow over the entire block in one fell swoop.

Jason knew exactly what this meant.

He wished he didn’t have to say this, but this wasn’t the first time he’d been in a building that was bombed. It was a miracle he was alive for the second time, actually. The first time he almost got crushed by the building—some of Gotham’s Finest had no consideration for teenagers leaping around the battlefield and trying to fish people out of a burning building. This wasn’t as bad—at least it didn’t make him feel like he was gonna get buried alive. But he knew what this would entail—evac.

As stupid as Gotham was at times, they’re not stupid enough to let this slip. The GCPD was probably all over this by now—the sirens were loud enough to be distinctly outside, right on the street—and ten bucks Mayor Gordon would have plenty to say. And Penguin and Two-Face? They’d done exactly what they’d wanted. They’d make enough profit out of this to bail them out, no questions asked.

He let out a shaky breath. Evacuation would start soon; a firefighter or cop would burst through the door and demand he leave the building for his own sake right the hell now. Jason gathered the rest of his stuff in bags—it wasn’t difficult. He didn’t have a lot. Kinda sad, but convenient at the same time. Now, only one conundrum left—where would he go now?

This had been a very decent place for him; it was close enough to the crime for him to not swing around Gotham too much—because he was lazy—but it wasn’t as close as him regularly falling into trouble. Financially, he wasn’t quite sure—vigilante work didn’t make as much bank as caped crusaders made it look. Then again, he’d been overdue for a raid anyway. Until then—

Wait.

It felt almost as if you’d jinxed him.

He felt a slight tinge of guilt in his gut. How could he keep asking you for help? He had nothing to repay you with. Not really. It wasn’t fair to you. He couldn’t—he. He had no other choice. And you’d insisted upon it. And you—how could he say no to you?

You were gonna be the death of him.

He dialed your number, fingers trembling as he held the phone in one hand and the piece of paper with your handwriting in the other. One ring… two rings… please don’t let this flop. Please, dear god did he even know what to say to you—

“Hello?”

Oh. That’s one less problem for him. But still enough for him to feel too jittery for his liking.

“Hey, uh—I know this is gonna sound really shitty,” he began, twisting the doorknob open and hiking through the hallway of the apartment. There were gaps in the ground he had to shimmy past, eyes glancing down to see the smoke and smallest amount of flames below him. “But I. Well. My apartment building kinda just got bombed—”

“ _What?_ ” You half-exclaimed into the receiver, shock coating your voice. “Are you—are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah, yeah, ‘m fine,” he jogged down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a collapsing chunk of concrete from above. Sirens still outside; gunshots officially ended. What a relief. Other apartment owners were beginning to stumble out of their apartments, though Jason suspected some might not make it out alive. “I just… I need…”

 _Damn it, Jason_ , a voice inside him hissed. _Just spit it out._

“I need a place to crash.” He paused, cringing a little. Just a ways to get outside… His voice cracked a little, lowering to almost a whisper at the realisation that he was openly asking you for help. Not in a professional manner or anything along those lines—in a way that friends or people who were close would help one another. Maybe that scared him. “Please.”

A small pause. Then, “Of course, Jason. I—do you want me to come pick you up?”

“No, I—I need a bit of a walk,” he responded. Jason peered outside, heart still fluttering at… at everything. He felt like a little boy all over again. “This could take a while.”

It was true—he had no idea what the hell he was doing. But that didn’t take away from the feeling in his gut that made him feel like this was exactly what he should be doing. That this felt… right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this is kinda sucky and more of a fluff instead of genuine plot, but I just needed to get back into the swing of things. 
> 
> Also, guys I'm super sorry. I know I haven't been active since Halloween, and that's super shitty of me. I've just been really busy and unmotivated, but I needed to get this chapter out. Hope you guys haven't lost interest in this yet!! Also also, thank you to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos. The support has been insane and I'm so happy you guys are enjoying this, despite my inactivity.
> 
> Comments and support are super appreciated; I do best with feedback. Thanks again, guys :)


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